


Let the More Loving One Be Me

by SherlockFan5000



Series: You Burn Like a Candle Inside My Soul [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Depression, Explicit Language, F/M, Gay Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Poor Sherlock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 17:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 341,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockFan5000/pseuds/SherlockFan5000
Summary: Sherlock has barely survived his kidnapping. A ghost of his former self, he considers himself a burden to his family and friends. And when, in a moment of vulnerability, he unwittingly reveals his greatest secret, he loses all hope. Will Sherlock survive?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a tough story to write and perhaps a hard one to read. Be warned: there is past violence and rape mentioned. There are specific descriptions of scars. Severe depression and a suicide attempt are mentioned. Please pay attention to the tags.

He lay there in the dark, his chest heaving as he couldn’t seem to draw in enough oxygen. He could feel his heart thumping wildly in his chest. His screams still echoed in the room. He could feel sweat cooling all over his body. The blankets were twisted around his torso and arms. He felt trapped, alone, terrified. Tears spilled from his eyes and sobs from his throat. Pain throbbed everywhere in his body.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” he heard outside the door. Not waiting for an answer, John came into the room, switching on the light. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock felt ashamed to have John see him like that. He couldn’t even bear to look at him. He heard him move towards the bed and sit down.

“Nightmares?” John asked as he reached out to touch Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock flinched away from the touch, cursing himself for the involuntary movement. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” John said softly. He reached again and Sherlock just managed not to pull away, but only with the greatest of effort. “I’m here for you. You’re not alone.”

“I wish that was true,” Sherlock whispered, his voice thick with emotion. 

“I’m here.” 

“For how long? How long will Mary let you stay here? You’ll go home and leave me alone.” 

“You’ll never be alone. I’m here now, for as long as you need me.” 

“I always need you, John,” Sherlock whispered as the tears fell harder. John leaned over and gathered Sherlock into his arms, pulling him to his chest, careful of Sherlock’s injuries. Sherlock rested his forehead in the space where John’s neck and shoulder met and felt John’s arms close around him. John laid the side of his face against the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock could feel himself shaking, heard his own sobs, as he clutched weakly at John’s t-shirt with his ruined hands.

“It’ll be okay, Sherlock. I’ll make sure of it.” 

“How? I feel so weak, so useless, so . . . lost. I’m not myself, John. I don’t know if I ever will be.” 

Sherlock felt something hit the top of his head and quickly realized that John was crying too. “We’ll find a way, Sherlock. You have all of us. We’re all here for you. Me, Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mycroft, and your parents. We’ll be here for you, always.”

“But, what if they come back? They said they would. They said they’d come back and take me again. They said I was theirs. They said I was their . . . whore.” 

Sherlock heard and felt John take a deep breath through his nose and recognized that sound. John only did it when he was so angry he could hardly speak. “They will not come back. Mycroft, Greg, and I will see to it. We will hunt down every one of those monsters and destroy them. They will never touch you again.”

“But it’s too late,” Sherlock whispered. “They’ve already destroyed me. Everything that was me is gone.”

John’s arms held Sherlock tighter. “You’re not destroyed. You’re still you, Sherlock. They can’t take that from you.”

“They already did. My mind is gone. I can’t think anymore. I can’t deduce. My mind palace is either gone or I can’t access it anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I feel them. They ruined my hands. I can’t play my violin anymore. I can’t do experiments. I won’t ever walk again. I need someone to do everything for me. I can’t even go to the loo by myself,” Sherlock was sobbing again, his chest heaving. 

“Sherlock, please. You’ve got to calm down.”

“I wish . . . I wish you’d just let me die,” Sherlock whispered. 

The words cut through John like a knife. To see Sherlock, the greatest man he’d ever known, reduced to this, so deep in depression that he didn’t want to live anymore, broke his heart into a million pieces.

“Please don’t say that. We all love you. We need you.”

“You have Mary and Rosie. No one needs me. I’m useless. I can’t be the consulting detective anymore. Can you imagine me showing up at a crime scene in my wheelchair? Donovan would have a field day calling me names and telling me I deserved it.”

“No one deserved what happened to you. And if she ever says a word to you again, I’ll make her regret it.”

“What am I going to do, John?” Sherlock winced as he sat up to look at John. “I can’t do anything anymore. I . . . I told Mycroft to see if he can find an institution that will take me in.” 

“No, you can’t. You can’t go away. We’ll look after you.”

“How?” Sherlock laughed bitterly. “I can’t even go downstairs. I need someone to carry me. You have to go home. You belong with your wife and daughter. You need to go back to your life. I’ll go away and you can forget about me.” 

“Don’t say that! I could never forget you. You’re my best friend. And I want to help you.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He winced trying to move the fingers that had been crushed, trying to ignore the missing fingers. “You feel obligated. I won’t have you ruining your life for me.”

“I don’t feel obligated. You’re one of the most important people in my life. I want to help you. We’ll make it better.”

Sherlock grabbed the blankets and threw them to the side, exposing his twisted, mangled legs. “How can we make this better, John?” he asked, his lower lip trembling. He showed John his useless hands. “They told me they would ruin me. And they did. I can’t sleep for the pain most of the time and when I do fall asleep I feel them touching me, torturing me, breaking bones, cutting, whipping, punching, I feel them pushing themselves into me. I hear myself screaming until my voice gave out.” He grabbed his head as pain bloomed behind his eyes. “They offered to let me go. Did I tell you that?”

“No,” John said, stunned. “No, you didn’t. Why did you stay?”

Sherlock looked up at John, tears glistening on his face, his glass eye shining strangely in the lamplight. The scar bisecting his face ran through the eyebrow and down his cheek. The Glasgow smile they’d carved into his face had scarred deeply. So much so that Sherlock had made him remove all of the mirrors in the flat that were at wheelchair level. “They said I could go. But I had to pick one of you. I had to pick either you or Greg or Molly or Mycroft. If I left, one of you would have to take my place. This was after the first three days, when I was in so much pain that I wanted to die. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let any of you get hurt. You’re all so much more important than I am. You all have people that need you. I don’t matter. I didn’t then and I certainly don’t now. So they started breaking my legs, mangling them, crushing them, and they asked again the next day. I said no. Then they started cutting off fingers and crushing my hands. They asked again the next day, and I said no. Then they started pounding my head into the floor. I knew there’d be brain damage but I still said no.”

John felt his heart pounding. “Oh, God, of course you matter. You matter to all of us. Sherlock, you never think you’re good enough. How much have you sacrificed for us? For all of us?”

“I don’t think I can sacrifice anymore. I haven’t anything else to give. But I’d do it all again. All so long as you were safe, John.” 

John looked into Sherlock’s eye and saw it then. He’d never let himself see it before. He fooled himself into thinking Sherlock didn’t think of love. But he saw it then. Sherlock Holmes had sacrificed, had given everything he had, had let himself be broken because he was in love.

“Sherlock . . .” John tried to swallow in a suddenly dry throat. He reached out a trembling hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb tracing along the cheekbone. “Sherlock, are you . . . do you love me?”

Sherlock looked at John, and John swore he’d never seen him look more vulnerable in his life. Not when they’d told him he’d never walk again. Not when they told him he had brain damage or that his hands were useless. He looked like a child who’d been abused all of their life who had found one bit of hope to cling to. He looked away from John. “I . . . It’s alright, John. I know that you don’t love me. I know that you never can and never will. It’s alright.” 

It hit John then. Why Sherlock had left John’s wedding early, the look on his face when he boarded that airplane to go off to his death in Eastern Europe. He’d known Sherlock meant to say more than Sherlock was a girl’s name when he left. His heart was broken because he’d sacrificed all to come back to John and John had abandoned him for Mary. 

Tears sprang to his eyes. The pain he’d caused Sherlock. He reached out and touched Sherlock again, pulling him into his arms. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t know. All you’ve given up for me. All you’ve sacrificed. I . . .”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered. “I know . . . you’re not gay. And you wouldn’t want me anyway. Not now. Not after so many of them used me. I’m dirty now. I . . . I only ever wanted you to touch me there. When they had me in Serbia, when they were torturing me, I dreamt of you. I dreamt of coming home to you and giving myself to you. I wanted you to be the first, and the last, the only one to ever touch me.”

John couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. To know that he was that loved. To know that Sherlock had only ever wanted him. And to know that the only sex Sherlock had ever experienced was vicious, violent rape. “You’re not dirty. Sherlock, none of it was your fault. And I do love you. I’ll always love you.” 

“Just not the way I love you. You have Mary. I have nothing. And no one. And I never will. You’re all I’ve ever wanted since the moment I met you, and I’ll love you until the day I die.”

“Sherlock, I . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock whispered as he pulled himself from John’s arms and lay down carefully on his side. “I’m tired, John.”

“Sherlock, please, we need to talk.”

“No. I said more than I should have. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should never have let you know how I felt. I shouldn’t have let you know that they offered to free me. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” he said harshly, beating on his head with his hands. The sharp pain behind his eyes exploded into the rest of his head.

“Stop it!” John said as he grabbed Sherlock’s hands. 

“So stupid!” Sherlock whispered. “You see. You see what they did to me. Go, John. Please go. Please go home to Mary. Forget I told you what I told you. Forget me. Forget I’m here. Pretend I died there. Mourn if you want. Just don’t come back. Please. Please go. It hurts too much to see the pity in your eyes. To see you and know that I’ll never, ever have you. Please John.” Head throbbing and blinded by tears, he rolled over, bringing his hands to his head, cradling it and moaning.

“I’ll get you something for the pain.”

“No. Just turn out the light. The pain will get so bad in a few minutes, it’ll knock me out. I might be able to get some rest.” He closed his eyes and moaned again.

John stood and turned off the lights. He stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock struggling with the pain. The moans got louder and louder until they bordered on screams. It was a blessing when Sherlock passed out. He moved back to the bed and pulled the covers back over him. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. 

He shut the door and went out to the sitting room, collapsing on the sofa. He looked at the baby monitor to make sure it was still on. The other half was in Sherlock’s room. He put his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. Tears welled in his eyes. All he could think was that it was him. He was the one who had broken Sherlock. Sherlock had suffered so much for him, all because he loved him. And John knew. He knew that, although he loved Sherlock as a best friend and as a brother, he couldn’t be Sherlock’s lover. He was with Mary. Guilt hit him in waves and he wanted to scream. Sherlock needed him. He needed to know that someone loved him. He never asked anything of John to repay him for all he’d sacrificed. And, John knew, he never would. Sherlock would continue to feel rejected, continue to feel unlovable. And there was nothing that John could do. And the thing that made him wince the most: the look in Sherlock’s eye. The depth of love in that one look was endless, and in that second, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock loved him with a single-mindedness and intensity that made Mary’s love pale in comparison. But John had made a vow to Mary that he couldn’t break.

He heard someone coming up the stairs. He looked up, rubbing the tears from his eyes. He knew that it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson, the step was too heavy. He also knew it wasn’t anyone dangerous. Mycroft’s agents were all around the building, and there were snipers on the roofs of the buildings opposite. He heard an extra tap with each step. Mycroft. 

The door slowly opened, and Mycroft stepped through. The ordeal of the last few months had weighed heavily on him. Mycroft had lost weight, his face was haggard, and he looked tired, bone tired. Though he’d never admit it, Sherlock’s condition had nearly broken him. The fact that it had taken five days for him to find where Sherlock had been held was something John knew Mycroft would never forgive himself for. 

“Good evening, John,” he started. “What’s wrong? Is he worse?”

“No. About the same. I . . . don’t know what to do. He told me something tonight, several things. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Ah, he’s told you he loves you,” Mycroft said as he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

“You knew?”

“He never told me. But he’s never cared for anyone the way he cares for you. As he’s proved multiple times, he’d sacrifice anything for you and he has. I take it that it didn’t go well.”

“I wish I could do something. I’m with Mary. I vowed that I’d be her husband. I can’t love him like he wants. And I feel so guilty about it.” 

“You can’t help your feelings anymore than Sherlock can help his.”

“I know. I know, but . . . There’s more. He told me they offered to let him go, several times. But he refused.”

Mycroft looked shocked. “What? Why . . . why would he do such a thing?”

“For us. Three days after they took him, before they started really hurting him. They told him he could go but he had to pick either you or me or Greg or Molly to take his place. He refused. They destroyed his legs and he refused; they destroyed his hands and he refused; they beat his head into the floor and he refused. He did it all to keep us safe.” John couldn’t stop the sob that escaped his throat on the last word.

Mycroft sat down heavily in John’s chair. “Oh God, Little Brother.” John had never seen Mycroft Holmes cry before but he watched as Mycroft covered his face with his hands and began to sob. John stood and walked to the chair, kneeling down in front of it. He reached out and touched Mycroft’s arm and suddenly found himself with an armful of Holmes. He couldn’t help himself, Mycroft’s tears were joined by John’s as both men struggled to process what they’d just learned. 

“He’s in such pain,” John managed to say. “Physical, emotional, mental. He told me to leave. To go back to Mary and Rosie and to forget him. He told me he wanted you to send him to an institution. You can’t, Mycroft. He needs us.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, pulling away from John as the kettle began to boil. He stood abruptly and went out to the kitchen. John sat down in Sherlock’s chair, wiping his eyes and pretending not to notice that Mycroft was desperately trying to bring his emotions under control as he made the tea. He brought in two cups and handed John his. He sat back down in John’s chair, his eyes red. “I’ve already hired two full-time nurses to be here at all times to help in every way from medication to getting him in and out of the bath. All of us — his family and his friends — need to make a schedule so that he’s not alone.”

“He needs to talk to a psychiatrist. He needs to have some hope that something of his mind palace can be recovered.”

“We don’t know that it can be, John.”

“No. But we have to try.” 

“He needs you. He’s trying to send you away because he wants you to be happy, and he no doubt feels he’s a burden to you. Sherlock has long had severe self-esteem issues stemming from the abuse he suffered throughout school and university. He’s never felt worthy of love. I’m afraid I haven’t helped him in that regard.”

“He needs to know, Mycroft. He needs to know what he means to you. What he means to all of us. We have to help him. All of his strength is gone. We have to give him ours.”

“Is he sleeping now?” 

“Yes. He hit himself in the head, punishing himself for revealing so much. He had a migraine. He wouldn’t let me give him anything for the pain. He was almost screaming before he passed out. But he wanted to. He said it was the only way he could get any rest.”

“He was addicted to morphine when he was younger. I imagine he doesn’t want to be again.” 

“There is a difference, Mycroft. He can’t get any extra. He can’t inject himself. We control it.” 

“Do you want me to stay with him tonight?” 

“No. I want to. In case he needs me. I’ll sleep on the sofa so I’m near him.” 

“Alright. I . . . I’ll have a nurse here by morning to help.” Mycroft got to his feet and started for the door. “I . . . I never realized how much . . . I knew he cared for all of you but . . .”

“Of course he loves you, Mycroft. You’re his brother. He might not say it. And you might not say it to him. But it’s there.” 

Mycroft nodded and started down the stairs. “Please take care of him, John.” 

“I will.”

John turned down the lights and pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa before he lay down. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and called Mary. 

“Hello?”

“Hi.” 

“John. How is he?”

“Not good. Really not good.” He sighed tiredly. “I don’t know what to do. He told me some things tonight. I just don’t know how to process them.”

“What did he tell you?”

He quickly filled her in before he said, “And he told me he loved me.” 

“I’m glad he finally told you.”

“You knew?” 

“It was pretty obvious, John.” 

“I feel so guilty. He’s convinced himself that he’s not worth loving. He told me to leave and not come back. But I can’t leave him.”

“I know. And I won’t ask you to. He’s done so much for both of us. He’s kept us safe. We wouldn’t be together if it wasn’t for him. Call me tomorrow and let me know if you think it would be okay for Rosie and me to come and visit.”

“He loves both of you. I think it’ll be good for him to have Rosie here. He’s so depressed.” 

“Okay. I’ll bring some treats too. Goodnight, John. I love you.”

“I love you too. Goodnight.” 

He lay there, staring out the window, listening to Sherlock breathing through the monitor. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep but couldn’t. He felt so guilty. He knew that Sherlock had pushed him and Mary back together because he thought it would make John happy. He thought back to everything that had happened since Sherlock had come back from the dead. How many times he’d caught Sherlock looking at him with a sad look on his face. How sad he’d looked on the dance floor at the wedding when he’d told John and Mary that they’d hardly need him around with a real baby on the way. How he’d killed Magnusson for flicking John in the face and for threatening him and Mary. How broken he’d looked on the tarmac when he was being sent off to die. And all that time, he’d only wanted John to love him. 

After a few hours of tossing and turning, John got up and made himself a cup of tea before turning the television on and watching whatever was on until the sky started to lighten outside. He’d gotten out a pad of paper and wrote out all of Sherlock’s relevant medical problems and the drugs that he has to take for pain and infection. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. His brain was fuzzy and he just wanted to sleep until everything was better again. 

He stood up and stretched. He went into Sherlock’s room and checked on him. He was still sleeping. He reached down and smoothed the hair off of his forehead. He frowned. Sherlock was warm, too warm. He’d have to up the antibiotics. 

He disappeared into the toilet and took a quick shower. When he came out, after shaving and brushing his teeth, he climbed the stairs to his old room and dressed. He came down and heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs.

“You’re up early, John,” she said as she handed him a cup of tea. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

“How is he?”

“Truthfully? Not good.” 

“I’m sorry, John. Do you need any help?”

“He wants his brother to send him to an institution. He doesn’t want us to pity him. He doesn’t want to be a burden to us. Mycroft and I were talking last night. He’s sending by nurses to look after him. And we’ve decided he’s never to be alone. One of us has to be with him. He’s so depressed. He doesn’t feel like he means anything to anyone. He told me last night that he . . . he loves me. And I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Oh, John. Of course, he loves you. And I know you love him. Maybe not in that way, but you love him.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “The two of you will work it out. Let him know how you feel.”

“He saved my life so many times. He’s sacrificed so much for me. All he wanted was for me to love him, and I feel so bad, so guilty because I can’t give it to him.” 

“I know.”

“He’s felt rejected all of his life and now this. He told me I’m the only one he’s ever wanted and that he’ll never love anyone else.” 

“Oh, the poor dear.” Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Be his friend. Show him how much you care.” 

“John?” a weak voice called.

“I’ll be right there. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Maybe for a second, dear.” 

John and Mrs. Hudson went into Sherlock’s room. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerily as she bent over to kiss his cheek. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered.

She reached out and touched his forehead. “You’re rather warm.” 

“Yes, I noticed that when I got up. I’ll get the thermometer.” John went into the toilet and came back, sticking the thermometer in Sherlock’s ear until it beeped. He looked closely at it.

“Only two degrees. How’s your head? Still hurting?”

“A bit. It’s not gone completely,” he said softly.

One of the things that most bothered John was the defeated tone in Sherlock’s voice. He hardly spoke above a whisper. The confident, knows everything tone was gone. 

He smiled at Sherlock. “I’ll get you a paracetamol. Mrs. Hudson, would you do me a favour and draw a bath?”

Sherlock seemed to pep up a little. “A bath? I think I’d like one.”

“We’re going to have a guest soon. Mycroft’s sending a nurse. One that can help with everything you need.”

Sherlock froze. “So, you’re going home?” 

“No. No. Don’t worry. He’s coming to help. There will be one who stays during the night too. And, if you’re up for it, Mary and Rosie are going to come by later.”

Sherlock smiled a bit. “I’d love to see Rosie and Mary.” 

John smiled at him. “Okay. Let’s get you undressed.” He helped Sherlock sit up and pulled the T-shirt over his head. John ran his eyes over Sherlock’s scars, anger rising in him as he checked to make sure none of them were infected. He especially hated to look at the marks on his chest. For every time they had raped him, they had marked a long thin line on his chest. It was all he could do to avoid counting them each time he saw them. But still, he knew that there were twenty-four, twenty-four times his best friend had been taken. The mass of scar tissue that was his back looked alright, but at the bottom of his back, he saw a slight swelling. He looked closer, definitely swelling and a bit red. “Sherlock, one of the scars on your back is infected. I’ll clean it and bandage it after your bath. I’ll give you a shot of penicillin. Should take care of everything. That’s why you’ve got the fever.”

“Bath’s drawn,” Mrs. Hudson called as she came through the door. She gasped as she saw Sherlock’s back. “Oh, love. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock whispered, staring at his useless hands. “It just hurts some.” 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Hudson said and gently touched Sherlock’s shoulder before she turned and left the room.

John pulled Sherlock around and laid him down so he could pull Sherlock’s pyjama pants and pants down, pulling his socks off too. He reached down and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock was still too thin. John could count his ribs and he weighed far too little for a man who was over six feet tall. He took him into the toilet and sat him down on the loo. After Sherlock was done, he picked him up again and set him in the bathtub. He washed Sherlock’s hair and face before wetting a flannel and getting the soap out, quickly washing him. He gave Sherlock the flannel to wash his privates. When they were done, he let the water out of the tub and started to dry Sherlock. While he was sitting there, he blew Sherlock’s hair dry and shaved him. Sherlock sat silent. John knew he felt embarrassed that John had to do this for him. 

He picked him up and took him back into the bedroom. Once he was dressed and sitting in his wheelchair, Sherlock was more alert. He asked John to place a blanket over his legs. There was so much nerve damage in his legs that they constantly pained and were constantly cold. They were so misshapen that he didn’t want anyone to see them so he kept them covered. 

John wheeled him out to the sitting room. “Do you want to look out the window?”

Sherlock nodded. He looked out, seeing people hurrying to work, going on with their boring, predictable lives. And he would gladly trade places with any of them. He found there was a lump in his throat and his eye was filling with tears. 

“What do you want for breakfast?” John asked as he brought over the syringe of penicillin. He pulled up the sleeve on Sherlock’s T-shirt and wiped the skin with alcohol before he injected him. He got Sherlock to lean forward as he cleaned the wound on his back and put a plaster over it. 

Sherlock used the distraction to wipe the tears off of his face. He hated that part of the brain damage had left him unable to control his emotions. “J . . . just oatmeal,” he whispered. 

“I’d have thought you’d be sick of it by now.” 

“No, I like it.” 

“Let me guess. With brown sugar and cream?”

Sherlock nodded and looked back out the window. He wished with all of his heart that his mobile would ring. That Lestrade would call him in on a case. That he’d pull on his coat and scarf and holler to John, “We’ve got a case.” That he could bound down the stairs and out to the street, raise his hand and yell “Taxi.” But those days were gone and were never coming back. He was of no use to Lestrade now. He was of no use to anyone now. This was the most he had to look forward to. Sitting and staring out the window or in front of the telly. His mind felt like it was tearing itself apart. One part of it fighting the other to keep the memories at bay. And he was so bored. 

Added to all of it was the embarrassing situation with John. He’d never meant to say so much. He’d never meant for John to know that he loved him. He was sure, despite what John said, that he was disgusted with him. He sighed. He really wished he had died. But there was nothing for him to do to accomplish that. He couldn’t get to any of the medication for an overdose. John and now this new nurse would watch him like a hawk. The razor blades he had hidden in his room for when he used to self harm, he couldn’t hold them or use them. He couldn’t even drown himself in the tub because there would always be someone there watching him. 

A few minutes later, John returned and pushed him to the kitchen table. All of his experiments were gone, the equipment swept clean. “Where have you put my microscope and all the beakers and test tubes?” he asked.

“Mrs. Hudson put them away. They’re just in one of the cupboards.” 

“You might as well sell them, John. I can try to pay Mycroft back for all he spent on me.”

“Why don’t we hold off on that, hey? You’ll be doing your experiments again.” 

Sherlock hung his head. “No. Never. I told you. Everything I was is gone.”

“Sherlock, please don’t talk that way. Here.” He sat down beside Sherlock and picked up the bowl of oatmeal holding a spoonful out to him. Sherlock begrudgingly ate it. He hated this. He hated that he couldn’t even hold a spoon. 

“You’re sure you don’t want some toast and jam? Mrs. Hudson got some new jam and it’s really good,” John said as he took a bite of his own toast and a sip of tea. 

Sherlock felt a stab of fear go through him. “N . . . no. I’m okay with just oatmeal.” 

John looked closely at Sherlock. Something was wrong. Sherlock wouldn’t eat anything much in the hospital. He’d been on a feeding tube for weeks. It could be that he was just getting used to food again. He’d make him sandwiches for lunch, nothing heavy.

Once breakfast was done and he’d taken Sherlock in to help him brush his teeth, John settled him back in the sitting room while he cleaned the kitchen. “Do you want me to turn on the telly?” John asked.

Sherlock winced. “No.”

“Okay.” John washed up the few dishes there were. He kept looking at Sherlock from time to time. He was just sitting there, staring. John hated to see him like this. He looked so young, so vulnerable, so . . . absolutely defeated. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t supposed to be a victim. But he was. His eyes were haunted, rimmed with dark circles. His face was tight and John knew he was in pain. But he wouldn’t tell him how much, he knew. 

When he was finished, he came back in. “Do you want to sit in your chair?” he asked Sherlock. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Suit yourself,” he said as he sat down with the paper. “Do you want me to read the paper to you?”

“No. Don’t bother.” 

He put the paper down. “It’s not a bother, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s gaze had fallen to his lap again as he stared at his hands. “I hate seeing you like this. There must be something you want to do.”

“I want to go out on cases. I want to do experiments. I want to play my violin. I want to chase after criminals through the backstreets of London. I want to do a great many things, John. But there’s no point thinking about them because I can’t do anything except sit in this stupid chair and stare for the rest of my absolutely pointless life,” he whispered, his tone one of defeat and resignation.

John stood and kneeled in front of Sherlock. “Look at me,” he said. Sherlock shook his head. “Please look at me.” Sherlock glanced up quickly and then back down at his hands. John reached out and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “Look at me.” Sherlock looked up. The pain in his eye made John want to cry. “Your life isn’t pointless. It will never be pointless. You are important to so many people.”

“No. No, you all feel sorry for me. You’ll get tired of having to deal with me being as helpless as a baby. You’ll all be glad to get rid of me. Then I can sit in a hospital in a wheelchair looking out the window all day. I’m just getting used to it. My life is over, John. There’s nothing left. They said they would destroy me. And they did. They won and there’s nothing I can do to get my life back. I’m, for all intents and purposes, dead. My stupid transport just won’t stop and make it official.” He weakly pulled his hands from John’s. “Just go home, John. Please go home and leave me. Mycroft will have nurses here. They’ll keep me alive. You don’t have to worry. Just go. I want you to be happy. And you can’t be happy having to deal with me. Please just go.”

“Listen to me. Listen well. I am not leaving you. I will not go home and leave you here with someone paid by Mycroft. You’re not being sent away to rot in an institution. And your life is not over. I know you feel like it is. I know that you’re in pain. I want to help you. We’ll work it out.”

“Work what out? What am I supposed to do with my life? There’s no job which requires a person to sit all day and stare into space. I don’t think they pay people to be doorstops. That’s all I’d be good for. Please John. Please leave me alone. I can’t stand for you to be wasting your time with me. You have a family now. You have a practice. You have a home. Please go home. Please.” Sherlock’s lip was quivering, tears running down his face. 

“You’ve just got out of the hospital. You’re still healing. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Am I going to walk? Are my hands going to heal? Is the brain damage going to miraculously heal itself?”

“Brains find ways to rewire themselves all of the time. You might be able to relearn to use your hands to do things with physical therapy. You can’t tell the future. You could end up getting so much out of life.”

“Not the thing I want most. Never that.”

John hissed. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Sherlock looked up at him again. “When I was there. When they were hurting me. When everything was pain, I didn’t scream for help. I screamed for you. Every time I’m in trouble, I call for you, instead of for help. And at night, when they were asleep, I dreamed of you. I dreamed that you rescued me. That you held me and looked into my eyes and realized how much you loved me. That you kissed me and told me it was okay. That you loved me and always would. I knew. I knew in the back of my mind that you would never do it. That you never loved me. But, oh God, how much I wanted it to be true. I’ve wanted you so much. I would do anything for you, John. But it’s just too much. It’s too much now. There’s too much pain. And now I know. I know that I can’t ever have you. There’s no point wishing for it anymore. So I have nothing left to hope for. Nothing to look forward to. No future. I have nothing left to fight for. And I can’t make myself want to care about getting better. I can’t make myself want to live.” 

“Oh God, Sherlock. I’ve hurt you so much. I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You can’t fix it. You can’t fix me. I’m broken. If something’s broken, you throw it away. You forget about it. That’s what I need you to do. I need you to forget about me. I’m not worth thinking about anymore. There’s nothing left. I had the work, and when I didn’t have that, I had my experiments and my music. All three have been taken away from me. And I still had hope. A small flicker of hope that one day you would love me. But I had to tell you. I had to see that look on your face. And now the hope is gone. Please John. Please go. Please.” Sherlock whispered, looking down at his hands. “You being here just makes it all real. I’m 38 years old, John, and my life is over.”

“It’s not over. You’re alive and it’s something we’re all thankful for.”

“I wish I wasn’t.” 

“Sherlock . . .”

“It’s alright. I know you can’t help what you feel. Just like I can’t help what I feel. And I feel like my life is over.” 

There was a knock downstairs. They heard Mrs. Hudson rush to the door and open it and then two sets of steps coming up the stairs. 

Sherlock wiped the tears off of his face as John stood up. Mycroft came in with a man dressed in scrubs. “John. Sherlock. I’d like you to meet Robert Kilkenny. He’s going to be your day-time nurse. The night-time nurse, Peter Tyler, will be coming by tonight. They’ll be helping you with your medications, getting you in and out of the bath, getting you dressed, and so on.”

Sherlock looked up briefly at the man who would be seeing everything they had done to him for as long as he wanted to work for Mycroft. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Robert held out his hand.

Sherlock reached out with his mutilated hand and Robert hesitated. Sherlock’s face turned red with embarrassment and he dropped his hand into his lap, his eyes fell to his lap. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kilkenny,” he whispered. 

“Yes, well. John, perhaps you’d like to fill Robert in on Sherlock’s particular medical conditions and his routine,” Mycroft said. 

John took Robert into the kitchen to show him Sherlock’s meds and give him a run down on Sherlock’s condition.

Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock. “How are you, Brother Mine?”

“Tired. In pain. In despair. I don’t need a nurse, Mycroft.”

“You need someone to help you.”

“I know. I know that I can’t even go to the loo. I know that I can’t get dressed or hold a spoon or get myself a drink of water. I know all of that, Mycroft.” He looked up into his brother’s eyes. “I don’t need a nurse, I need someone to help me do the only thing that will truly help me, that will bring me peace.” 

“And what is that?”

“I need someone to kill me,” Sherlock whispered. The pain in Sherlock’s eye was so acute, it made Mycroft wince.

“No, Little Brother. You don’t need someone to do that.” He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “You have all of us. We’re here for you.” 

“I don’t need all of you to feel sorry for me. I don’t need pity. I don’t need you to try and make me feel like I still have something to look forward to, that I still have a purpose. I need you to make the pain and the hopelessness go away. I need you to make those five days stop playing over and over and over again in a loop in my brain until it makes me want to scream. I need you to help me stop feeling useless and disgusting and used and . . . empty. I need you to get my mind palace back, my ability to deduce back. I need you to make me be able to walk and use my hands. I need to be a consulting detective again. I need my experiments. I need my violin. I need to be able to fool myself into thinking John might love me someday as much as I love him. Can you give me any of those things, Mycroft? Can you?”

Mycroft looked at his brother, at the utter despair radiating out of him in waves. “I will do my best.” 

“But even you can’t get me any of those things, Mycroft. The absolute best thing for me is to let me die. Would you want to live like this? If this were you, would you want to live like this?”

Mycroft didn’t have to think. He knew. He knew with 100% certainty that he wouldn’t want to live like this. And Sherlock, despite the loss of his deductive capabilities, he knew as well.

“Sherlock, please. Be reasonable. You can’t expect any of us to do that to you.”

“Then I don’t want anything from any of you. Send your nurse away.”

“You need someone . . .” Mycroft began.

“All of you need to go. All of you. If you won’t help me, then leave me here alone.”

“We can’t. We won’t.”

Sherlock looked up once more. “Mr. Kilkenny. Could you come help me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“I’m tired. Would you mind helping me into bed?”

“No, sir.” Robert took the parking brake off and wheeled Sherlock into his room.

“What was that all about?” John asked Mycroft.

“He begged me to kill him. He doesn’t want anything from any of us. He doesn’t want any of us here. He just wants to die, to make the pain go away.” Mycroft was shaken. Never, at his lowest point, had Sherlock ever been this desperate. 

“We need to get him to talk to his psychiatrist as soon as possible.” 

“I can arrange for him to get into an institution . . .”

“No. Not that. He already thinks we don’t want to be around him. If we do this, he’ll think no one cares and have just dumped him in the nearest convenient place. It has to be someone who’ll come here.”

“I’ll make sure she comes today.” 

Mycroft followed John into the kitchen as John put the kettle on. They needed to talk. To discuss what was best for Sherlock. Robert joined them a few minutes later, saying that Sherlock was in bed. John got up and brought the baby monitor out to the kitchen. He looked up at Mycroft, neither of them could deny the sound of Sherlock crying was breaking their own hearts. John gave Robert a cup of tea and began to give him some ground rules about dealing with Sherlock.

“He’s blind in his left eye. Don’t approach him on that side without making some noise. He doesn’t like to be grabbed or touched without permission. He can’t use his hands for much, he can’t walk, he gets extremely painful migraines. He’ll need help with just about everything: getting out of bed, getting dressed, bathed, going to the loo, being shaved, brushing his teeth, being fed. He doesn’t want to see himself in mirrors so avoid it. He’s suffering from PTSD and has sometimes violent nightmares. He can’t sleep as a result of them so he’ll take cat naps through the day. He’s suffering, as well, from very severe depression. We have a psychiatrist coming to talk to him. He has brain damage that has impaired the way he thinks and means he’s lost control of his emotions. He’ll be angry, he’ll cry. I’ve written all of this down along with his medication schedule. He’s also in a lot of pain but won’t admit to it. He was addicted to morphine when he was younger and is afraid that he’ll get addicted again. Why don’t you take this and have a look at it and let me know if you have any questions?” 

Robert nodded, picked up his tea, and went into the sitting room, settling on the couch.

Mycroft and John started to make a list of people they could count on to look after Sherlock: the two of them, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, even Billy and Anderson, if need be. Mycroft was adamant that his parents not be included. His mother had taken one look at Sherlock’s face and had completely broken down. It was fine for them to visit, but they couldn’t be with Sherlock for long. Mycroft promised to contact all of them to make a schedule.

Hours later, Sherlock had managed to nap for about an hour before he began screaming. John and Mycroft came into the room. John bent over and slowly woke him, shaking his shoulder and calling his name until, with a gasp, Sherlock woke up. He looked wildly around the room for a few moments before he realized he was home, he was safe.

“Are you okay?” John asked quietly.

He nodded. 

“Are you hungry?” 

He shook his head but his stomach growled.

John smiled at him. “I think your stomach disagrees.” 

“Just soup,” Sherlock whispered.

“You have to eat something besides soup and oatmeal, Sherlock. You need something solid.”

Sherlock looked nauseated at the thought. “I . . . I can’t, John. Please don’t make me.”

“Why not? You need to eat.”

Sherlock turned red and looked away from John. “Mycroft, maybe if you left, maybe he’d tell me.” 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said as he went out to the sitting room.

“Okay, your brother’s gone. Why can’t you eat solid food?”

“It . . . it’ll hurt.”

“Is your stomach bothering you? It’s because you haven’t been eating enough.”

“No.”

“Oh, you mean . . .? No, Sherlock. Your stitches have healed. It might sting a bit, the first time, but it won’t really hurt when you go to the loo.” 

“That’s not the only reason, John.”

“Then what? What is it? I can’t read your mind.”

“When . . . when they were . . . when they forced themselves on me, sometimes one of them would force me to . . . he’d put himself in my mouth and make me do things.” 

John blanched. “Oh God, Sherlock. I never thought . . .”

“You know what happened when they tried to get me to eat at the hospital.”

“You vomited.”

“It felt like they were pushing themselves into me again. I could feel them touching me again.” Sherlock started to hyperventilate. 

“Calm down. Calm down. Sherlock, take deep breaths.” 

It took a few moments, but Sherlock gradually calmed down. John took his pulse and it was gradually slowing. “Why don’t we try something small? I’ll make you a sandwich and cut it in really small pieces. You can try can’t you?”

“Stop fussing over me, John. I went for days without eating before.”

“But you can’t go the rest of your life.”

Sherlock looked at him. “I could if someone would give me what I want.”

“Stop it! Just stop it! I won’t have you talking like this. You have so much to live for, Sherlock. You have so many people who love you. I love you.”

“Then kiss me.”

John looked at him in shock. “Sherlock, you know I . . .”

“Go. Get out.”

“I’ll start your lunch.”

“I don’t want anything. Go home to the one you chose.”

“Sherlock, please don’t be like this. Mycroft’s here. I’ll ask if he’ll stay.”

“Tell him and his nurse to go too.”

“You can’t be here by yourself.”

“Just get the fuck out!” Sherlock screamed. It was the first time John had heard him speak above a whisper since he’d woken up in the hospital. Mycroft came to the door. “And you go too! Both of you leave me the hell alone! And take your nurse/spy with you! All of you leave me alone! Now! Go, now!!!” He roared. His eyes were streaming tears of anger and frustration and he balled up his hands in as close to fists as he could attempt. 

“Calm down, Sherlock. Please, calm down,” John started to say.

“Get out! Stop treating me like a broken puppy! Get out, go, now!!!!” he howled.

John stood up and shoved Mycroft out of the door. “Don’t just go out to the sitting room! Get out! Leave me alone!”

The three men started down the stairs. They stood at the bottom of the stairs as Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, her eyes wide. 

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s having a meltdown of major proportions,” John said, worried. “He needs to calm down. He wanted all of us to leave.”

Mrs. Hudson put her hand on John’s arm. “Don’t worry. It was bound to happen. You know how he hated anyone to fuss over him.”

“But he can’t be alone, Mrs. Hudson. He can’t do anything for himself,” Mycroft said, looking troubled.

“I know. Let me go talk to him.”

“Mrs. Hudson . . .” John started.

“He’ll listen to me.”

She started up the stairs and, taking a deep breath, stepped into Sherlock’s room. He was lying on the bed, on his side, breathing hard. 

“Sherlock, love?” she said.

“Please go, Mrs. Hudson. Please leave me alone,” he whispered, all of the anger and vitriol gone. 

“You don’t need to be left alone. You need someone to listen, don’t you?” She sat down beside him and gently touched his arm. 

“Why won’t they leave me alone? Why won’t they listen?”

“What do you want them to do?”

“Just leave me alone. Mrs. Hudson, I’m so broken. I’m so scared. I don’t have anything left. I just want all the pain to go away.” 

“I know, pet. I know. But you need us to be here for you, just like you’ve always been here for us. It’s alright to need other people.”

“But I’m Sherlock Holmes, I shouldn’t need anyone.”

“Even you. Even Sherlock Holmes needs people.”

He looked up at her. “But the one I want most doesn’t want me,” he whispered.

“John?”

He nodded silently.

“You love him?”

“With all my heart.”

“And he doesn’t love you?”

He shook his head.

“And he’s told you he doesn’t.”

“I know he doesn’t. He loves Mary. I would give my life for him and he doesn’t want me. I just want all of this to go away, Mrs. Hudson. I can’t stand the pain anymore.”

“Oh, my poor boy. Can’t you be brave awhile longer? Things are always better once a bit of time goes by.”

“Not for me. Do you know what they did to me? How they hurt me? How they humiliated me? How they ruined me?”

“Not all of it.” 

“I’m done. I’m finished. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t make myself want to go on, Mrs. Hudson. Why won’t they let me go?”

“Because we love you. And we want you to be safe. We want you to be happy.” 

“I can’t be happy. I need him. I need John. I need him to love me.” He sat up and Mrs. Hudson took him into her arms as he started to cry. 

“It’s alright, love. He does love you. He loves you because you’re his best friend. He loves you like a brother.”

“But I want him to love me like I love him. I want him to kiss me, to hold me, to tell me that he’ll love me forever and nothing they did to me mattered. I want him to make love to me. I want him to lie beside me to keep the nightmares away. And to know that it won’t ever happen . . . I just want to curl up and lie here until I die.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t give up. I know your heart is broken. I know that you’ve been hurt in ways that I can’t imagine. I know that you’ve always pushed people away so they won’t hurt you. But you must find the strength to go on. You need to find the strength to live with the memories. You remember when you helped me? You remember what my husband did to me? You helped me to want to go on. You freed me from him. You saved John from his past. You gave him a reason to want to go on. You’ve been there for all of us. You gave up your life for two years, you suffered, and you nearly died to save John and Greg and I. We all owe you so much. We need you to stay. We need you to be here with us.”

He pulled her closer and cried into her shoulder as she stroked his hair and whispered that she loved him. He was still shaking when the tears stopped. 

“Will you promise me that you’ll be strong? Will you promise me that you’ll try to go on?”

“I promise,” he whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Because it would break my heart if anything more happened to you.”

He nods into her shoulder.

“And if you’re frustrated with them, make them come and get me. You can tell me anything. I will always listen.”

“Will you . . . will you make me some tea?”

“Of course I will. Shall I send John and Mycroft and your new nurse back up? They’re all milling around downstairs, not sure what to do.”

Sherlock nodded. He sat back up and she patted his cheek and smiled at him. She stood up and bent once more to place a kiss on his forehead. He sat there and watched her leave. He’d meant it. He would try for her. But he knew that it would take a lot. He heard the three of them coming back upstairs. John popped his head around the door. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You’re frustrated and angry. I know what that’s like.” 

“I’m so scared, John. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Then let us help you find yourself.” He came over and sat down beside Sherlock. “Do you want to come back out?”

He nodded. John stood and picked him up, sitting him in the wheelchair. He took him back out to the sitting room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Mycroft and Robert. “I’m sorry that I lost my temper. I’m sorry that I yelled.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I understand.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Robert said. “Don’t worry about it, sir.”

John took him into the kitchen to make him his lunch. He placed a plate with a sandwich cut into very small pieces in front of him as Mrs. Hudson brought him his tea. Sherlock started to shake as he looked at the sandwich, imagining the feel of it in his mouth. He tried his best to calm himself, to steady his breathing, to force the thoughts out of his mind. He watched as John speared one of the sandwich pieces with a fork and asked him, “Ready?”

He nodded once as John put the sandwich bit into his mouth. He wanted immediately to spit it out but kept himself from doing so. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of it.

“Look at me,” John said softly. He opened his eyes and looked into John’s. Sherlock was struggling. “Look at me. You’re safe. No one will hurt you here. I promise.”

And Sherlock began to chew. His stomach was rethinking the whole thing but as he looked into John’s eyes, he was finding the courage to continue. He swallowed the first bite and asked for a drink of tea. John smiled at him and gave him another piece. He got almost half of the sandwich down before he gagged. The flashback started to whirl around his mind. One of them was pounding into him, his fingers leaving bruises on Sherlock’s hips. Another approached and got down on his knees before he undid his zip and pulled Sherlock’s head up by his hair and forced himself into Sherlock’s mouth. 

“No!” he screamed. He pushed back at the table. He could feel them violating him, he could hear their grunting, he could feel the pain. He started to retch. He needed to get it out. He couldn’t hear John telling him it was okay, that he was home, that he was safe. He struck out as he leaned over the side of his wheelchair and vomited. When the sandwich was gone out of his system, the flashback continued. They were laughing at him as one of them held him down and the other carved a line on his chest. He was lying on the cold cement floor, naked, bleeding, and crying. Every part of his body was aching. 

He could feel hands on his face. “No! Don’t hurt me again! Please. Please, not again. Please.” He tried to push them away but he had no strength left. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “No more, please.” He began to hyperventilate. He just wanted to get away. 

He was starting to feel lightheaded. Maybe if he passed out, they’d leave him alone. He tried to curl in on himself, but every part of his body was in agony. “No, no, no, no, no. Please,” he whispered. He wanted John. He wanted John to come and rescue him. “John, John help me.” 

He felt his body unclenching. He felt the warehouse disappearing around him. He felt the hands on his face again. “Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

The hands. Those were John’s hands. He shook his head and looked again. It was John looking at him. John was helping him. He could see the look of concern, of fright, of love on John’s face.

“John? You came? You came to get me out of here?”

John looked so afraid. “No, Sherlock. You’re home. You’re home and you’re safe. You’re with me at 221B.”

“No. No. It’s a trick. It’s my mind playing tricks. You’re not here.”

“Sherlock, please come back. Please come back. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

He looked at John again. Then he looked down at his hands. He looked around. It was the kitchen at 221B. He looked at the table. The remains of his sandwich were sitting on a plate. And he remembered. “Oh God. John. I’m so sorry. I . . . I tried. I tried.” The pain came back, hitting him like a sledgehammer. He sobbed once before John knelt in front of him and took him into his arms. Sherlock began to cry into his shoulder, his whole body shuddering with sobs.

John was rubbing his back. “I know. I know you tried. It’s okay. We’ll work on it some more.” 

Sherlock was shaking with fear and anguish. “It was so real, John. I was right there. I could feel them. I could feel them raping me. I can still feel it.” 

He heard gasps and straightened. He’d forgotten. Mrs. Hudson, his brother, and the nurse were staring at him, shock on their faces. Mrs. Hudson burst into tears. Sherlock could feel his face heating up. He knew he was blushing.

“Oh, God,” he whispered. “John . . . please, I . . . I can’t.” John nodded and pushed him back into his bedroom. Sherlock hung his head into his hands. “John, I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have said . . . how can I ever face Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft and Robert again?”

“It’s okay. Calm down. They understand. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“It was working. I was eating. I just . . . all of a sudden it took me back. It was so real. What am I going to do? This morning, you thought I was sitting there staring. I wasn’t. It plays like a movie in my head, over and over and over. I try my best to block it out but it’s hard. It’s so hard. If I had my mind palace, I could store it away, lock it behind closed doors. But now I can’t.”

“It’s alright. It’ll be okay. We’ll find a way.”

“Before I go mad? I don’t think so. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat.”

“You’ll need to talk to the psychiatrist when they come by today. Maybe they can help you.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore. I want my life back, John. That’s all. I just want my life back.”

“I wish I could give it to you.” 

“I know. Should we try again? The food?”

“I’ll ask Mycroft to get you some of those shakes that have all the vitamins and nutrients in them. And we’ll work on it. I’ll make you some soup for now. That sound okay? Maybe I can crush up some crackers in it?”

Sherlock nodded. He felt so mortified about what he’d done. He kept his head down when John wheeled him back to the kitchen. The vomit was cleaned up off of the floor. Mrs. Hudson knelt down in front of him. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock. You don’t have to feel embarrassed. My heavens, if I’d gone through a fifth of what you went through, I’d be a broken mess. You’re so strong. Just know that all of us are here for you. We’re always here for you.”

He looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I made a mess.”

“It’s alright, Brother Mine. Easily cleaned up,” Mycroft said, softly. Sherlock glanced at his brother, surprised to see the soft look on his face. “I’m a bit concerned about you’re not being able to eat.”

“I’ll work on it, Mycroft.”

“I know you will.” 

“In the meantime, I’ll make you that soup.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said, quietly.

Sherlock was able to keep the soup down and John did up the dishes. 

An hour later, when Sherlock was just nodding off, there was a knock on the door downstairs. A woman, in her late forties, came up the stairs. “Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

“I’m Mycroft Holmes, you must be Dr. Fraser.” Mycroft came forward and offered her his hand. “You come very highly recommended.”

She smiled tightly at him. “And you must be Sherlock Holmes,” she said, walking over to Sherlock.

He held out his hand. “Yes. I must be,” he whispered.

She took his hand and shook it. “Do you think we could talk for a bit?”

“Alright. In my room, perhaps?”

John wheeled Sherlock into his room. He’d made the bed earlier and taken Sherlock’s chair in there. When he came out, he and Mycroft stared at each other, not sure what to do. John reached over and shut off the baby monitor. Robert sat down on the sofa, leafing through one of Sherlock’s medical texts. John was frightened. He didn’t know exactly why. He supposed he feared the psychiatrist would suggest that Sherlock needed John to not be around him until his heart healed a bit. 

An hour later, the bedroom door opened and Dr. Fraser came out. “Dr. Watson?” she asked as she came up to John.

“Yes?”

“I understand you’re his doctor.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to suggest that I see him every day for the foreseeable future. He has a lot to work through. He’s severely depressed and suicidal. He can’t be alone. He’s lost so much and gone through so much. It will take a lot for him to accept what’s been done to him. I understand that there will be a physical therapist coming to work on his hands.”

John nodded. “We’ve made plans for one of his friends to always be with him, in addition to a nurse.”

“Good. Very good. He’s going to try and push you all away but don’t let him.”

“He’s already tried. Did he mention his inability to eat anything solid?”

“Yes. We’ll work on that as well.”

“Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”

“He told me you’ve been trying. Keep doing that. I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll bring a medication that should help. He’s a bit upset. You might want to go to him, calm him down.”

Mycroft said quietly. “I’ll show you out.”

John took a deep breath and went into Sherlock’s room. He was looking into the distance, tears slipping down his face. But he was quiet.

John sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock remained quiet. His gaze still distant. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Come back to me.”

Sherlock blinked once and looked at John. 

“You okay?”

“I talked to her, John. I did what I was supposed to do. And she thinks I’m insane and suicidal, no doubt. But I suppose you and Mycroft won’t let her lock me away so they can keep me drugged all day and force me to eat and talk in group sessions and tell everyone over and over how they beat me and raped me.” Sherlock was again staring at his hands and whispering in a tired, defeated voice. 

“She’ll be back tomorrow. She’s bringing a new medication to try.”

He snorted. “Ah, keep me drugged but leave me here. So I can ruin all of your lives.” 

“Sherlock, please.”

“Wheel me out so I can stare out the window?” he asked.

John sighed and wheeled him out to the sitting room, depositing him in front of the window. Sherlock leaned forward to stare at the people passing by.

“Tell me,” John asked. “That guy with the skateboard. What can you tell me about him?”

“He’s got appalling taste in clothes. He’s young. There’s nothing else. I can’t deduce anymore, John. Don’t taunt me.”

“I’m not taunting you, Sherlock. You can try, can’t you?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. What’s the point?”

John sighed. “Can I make you some tea?” 

“Alright.”

Mycroft spoke up from Sherlock’s chair. “I’m proud of you, little brother. I didn’t think there was any chance you’d actually talk to her.”

“Why ever would I not, Mycroft? The old me would have reduced her to tears within a few minutes. But that man’s dead. Why not cooperate? I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“Don’t bother, Mycroft. I don’t want to hear how everything will be fine. That I’ll miraculously get better. It’s bad enough I have to listen that that drivel from John. Don’t you lie to me too. Don’t you have a government to run?”

“I’ve taken some personal time.”

“For me? The little brother that did nothing but embarrass you? The little brother you spied on? The little brother who’s of absolutely no use to you anymore, who can’t solve mysteries. This is all so pointless.”

Sherlock was quiet most of the rest of the afternoon. He stared out the window and answered John’s questions but said nothing else. John heard the door open downstairs and a child’s giggle as Mrs. Hudson said something. He heard someone coming upstairs and went to the door, a big grin on his face. 

“Hello you two. How are you?” He kissed Mary on the lips and then Rosie on the cheek. 

“Papa!” Rosie said as John pulled her into his arms and spun her around. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, sweetheart. But I had to stay with Uncle Sherlock. Do you want to go and say hello?” He set her down on the floor.

She walked over to Sherlock, almost shyly. He lifted his head up, looked at her, and smiled.

“Hi, Uncle Sherlock,” she said and smiled. John lifted her up and set her in Sherlock’s lap. She put her arms around Sherlock’s neck and hugged him. He hugged her back.

“I missed you, Rosie,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve been keeping Papa away from you. He’ll be coming home to you soon, I promise.”

She sat back down on his knee and looked at him, closely. “Uncle Sherlock, why does your face look so funny? It’s all ugly. Are you wearing a mask?”

“Rosie!” John and Mary both yelled, looking mortified.

Rosie looked upset and started to cry. “It’s okay, Rosie,” Sherlock whispered but John could see the look of devastation on Sherlock’s face. His eye was blank. “I’m sorry I scared you. Some bad men did this to me.”

“Why did they hurt you?” she asked, rubbing her fists across her eyes.

“They were bad men I put in prison. They were mad that I sent them away.”

“Did Uncle Greg catch them?”

“Not yet but he will.” 

“Okay. Do you want to play a game?”

“I can’t, Rosie. They hurt my head too. It hurts to think sometimes.” 

“I’m sorry.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “We brought you a treat.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, the defeated tone back. “What did you bring?”

“Those biscuits you like. The ones with the chocolate.” 

Sherlock’s face went even whiter. “Thank you for bringing them, Rosie. But I’m afraid the doctor said I couldn’t have sweets just yet. I want you to have them. Maybe Papa can get you a drink of milk and you can have some.”

“Can I, Papa?” she asked.

John picked her up and took her to the kitchen.

Mary sat down beside Sherlock. She reached out and took his hand. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what she said. She didn’t mean it.”

He looked up at her and smiled sadly. “Oh, I really think she did. It’s okay. Doesn’t the saying go, out of the mouths of babes? I’m well aware of how hideous I am.” Tears trickled down his face. He made no move to wipe them away. “Can I ask you something? Promise you’ll answer?”

“Anything, Sherlock.”

“What’s it like? What’s it like knowing that he loves you?”

“Sherlock, please. Don’t do this.”

“What’s it feel like when he kisses you? What’s it feel like when he tells you he loves you? What does it feel like when he makes love to you?”

“Sherlock . . . I think maybe you need . . .”

“You won, Mary. You won. I died for him, I killed for him, I ruined myself for him, I lived for him when all I wanted to do in that Serbian prison was die, I came home to him, and he chose you. I planned your wedding, I convinced him that you didn’t want to kill me because I thought it would make him happy. And all I want is for him to be happy. But I need to know what it feels like to know that he loves you. I need to know.”

“You’re hurting yourself, Sherlock. Please stop this.” 

“I have absolutely nothing to live for anymore, Mary. Nothing. I have no hope that anything will ever be better.” He sobbed once. “Do you know I died when you shot me? I was in my mind palace. Moriarty was there, tormenting me, telling me to just die. And it was so easy. It was so easy to just go. But then he told me that John was in danger. I pulled myself back from death for him. I murdered a man for him because it was all I could do to keep you safe. I was going back to Eastern Europe, being sent away to die for him so you’d be happy together.”

Mary had tears in his eyes. “It feels like coming home to a warm hug. It feels like the most beautiful thing you can imagine. When you used to lose yourself in your violin, you felt free and comforted. It’s like that. He makes me feel protected and safe and . . . cherished. And wherever I am, as long as I’m with him, I know I’m home.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened to her. “Everything I wanted. Everything I’ve ever wanted. And you have it. Why?” He looked at her, the pain radiating off him in waves. “Why can’t anyone love me?”

“We do love you.”

“No. I . . . I can’t . . .” He started to hyperventilate and he felt the pain gathering in his head.

“Are you okay?” he heard John ask.

He welcomed the pain. It was less than the pain throbbing in his heart. And he hoped that if there was a God, it would kill him. He felt John’s hands on his head. His vision was dimming. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. And with every beat, he prayed it was his last. He hoped the pain would cause a stroke. The blackness was coming, and he welcomed it. He dove head first into it hoping it would take him forever.

He had no idea how long it was before he woke up, drawing in a deep breath as pain spiked in his head again. He was lying on his side in his bed. It was dark outside. There was the sound of deep breathing across the room. Someone was asleep. He opened his eye. The nightlight he slept with (total darkness completely frightened him) was illuminating the room. He had no idea who the man was but assumed he was the night nurse.

“So,” he thought, “they’ve left me alone.” He considered it for a moment. “Good.” He was slightly disappointed that he’d even awoken. His stomach growled. He needed water. He needed the loo. But he also wanted to just lie here, curled up, and wait. Wait for death to claim him. He didn’t believe in an afterlife, or at least he didn’t think he did. Though the idea of going back to the time he was happiest was something he would like. Running through the fields with Redbeard, playing pirates with him. Maybe, it would be a place where John and he could be together. The thought of it, of being able to touch John, to kiss him, and to make love to him, made him so happy. But he knew it would never be. If there was an afterlife, John would be with Mary. And he’d be alone there too. 

He lay there, staring at the wall. After what felt like hours, Mycroft came in. It was still dark out. 

“Been awake long, Brother Mine?”

“Mmmm,” he said.

“Do you need anything?”

“Water.” 

“Do you need any painkillers?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you keep torturing yourself?”

“Physical pain is nothing.”

“I don’t just mean that. Mary told me what you asked her. You have to stop this, Sherlock. I know how much you love John, but he won’t ever be yours. He’s done so much for you but if you keep on, you’re going to destroy yourself pining for him.”

Sherlock knew that what Mycroft said was true. But it didn’t matter.

 

Three days later, Sherlock tried to kill himself. Mycroft was in the sitting room dictating to Anthea. Robert had just drawn Sherlock’s bath and carried him into the toilet. He quickly undressed Sherlock and set him in the bath.

“Robert, will you go bring my clothes in here. I really don’t fancy Anthea seeing me naked.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll just sit here. It’s nice and warm. Close the door when you go out.”

As soon as he heard the click, Sherlock slipped beneath the water. Ignoring every instinct, he breathed in a lungful of water. He felt himself scrambling to try to get to the surface but stopped himself. He drew in more water as the comforting blackness crept over him again. It hurt so much but he was determined. When the black took him this time, he met it with a smile on his face.

Hours later, he woke. His chest hurt. He could hear air hissing. He felt an oxygen mask on his face. “No,” he whispered. He opened his eyes. He was in a hospital room. 

Disappointment and anger flashed through him. He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t even kill himself. He pulled the oxygen mask off and pulled the IV out of his hand. Blood started to drip from the wound in his hand but he didn’t care.

Why wouldn’t they do what he wanted? Why wouldn’t they just let him go?

He looked towards the window. Maybe he could get to it. Maybe he could throw himself out of it. He found the bed controls and stabbed at one of them three times before his finger caught on it enough to lower the bed as low as it would go. He pulled off the quilts and slid out, falling heavily on the floor. He moaned when pain flashed through his already throbbing chest. He pulled himself along as well as he could towards the window. He got underneath it and sat up. He tried to reach the window sill but couldn’t pull himself up. 

“Damn!” he swore. He pulled his legs in and wrapped his arms around them, huddling in the corner. He refused to cry. He sat there, leaning against the wall, staring, thinking nothing. And he slowly began to beat his head against the wall. Each jolt sent another jarring flash of pain through him but he didn’t care anymore.

John was just coming back from the cafeteria with a cup of tea when he opened the door to Sherlock’s room. He’d left a suitable chastised Mycroft, who he’d yelled at for ten minutes. He knew Sherlock would claim that it was an accident, but he knew that his best friend had tried to kill himself. And it was eating him up inside. 

The bed was empty. And John began to panic. “Sherlock?” And then he saw him, sitting on the floor. John dropped the tea and rushed to Sherlock’s side, sliding down to the floor. “Stop it,” he said as he put his hand between Sherlock’s head and the wall. He didn’t like the blank look on Sherlock’s face. He was hurting himself and it didn’t seem to be affecting him at all. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to hit his head, against John’s hand. He gave no indication that he’d heard John at all. John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and turned him so he was looking at John.

“Stop this, Sherlock. Stop this, now,” he said firmly. He looked into Sherlock’s eye and it was haunted. He knew that that look meant he was lost in the memories of those five days. “Wake up, Sherlock. Wake up and come back to me.” Sherlock wasn’t coming out of it. There were no tears; there was no reaction. John let go of his face and got to his feet. Sherlock began banging his head on the wall again. John bent down and picked Sherlock up. He hardly weighed more than Mary. He pulled him to his chest and laid him carefully back into the bed. He covered him up and replaced the oxygen mask. He noticed the blood on Sherlock’s hand and called for a nurse to come and tend his wound and replace the IV. 

Sherlock lay still as a corpse, the slight raise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. He didn’t flinch when the nurse reinserted the IV. When she left, John sat down next to him and took his hand in his.

“Sherlock. I know what you did. I know you tried to kill yourself. I hate that you’re in so much pain. I hate that I’m causing you so much pain. I wish . . . I wish I could give you what you want. I do love you, you know. I’ll always love you. I just . . . I’m married. Please don’t throw your life away. I know what you said to Mary. I know that you’ve sacrificed absolutely everything in your life for me, to keep me safe, to keep me happy. And I can never, ever pay you back for it. Though I know you wouldn’t ask for anything. You won’t even really ask me to love you. I wish you would believe that you’re loved. I wish you would believe that you were worth loving. I know that you’ll find someone. There’s someone out there who will make you happy. Someone who will hold you in his arms and tell you what a wonderful man you are. Please, believe me.”

“He won’t,” he heard Mycroft say from the door. “He’ll never believe it. And he won’t ever get over you.”

“Not now Mycroft,” John said.

“What’s happened?”

“I found him on the floor under the window in the corner. I don’t know how he got there. He was sitting there, pounding his head against the wall. He’s unresponsive. I think he’s reliving those days again.”

“Under the window, you say? You do know what he was trying to do, don’t you?”

John looked back at Mycroft, a look of horror on his face. “He was trying to throw himself out the window, wasn’t he?”

Mycroft nodded. “It appears that he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. You didn’t let me get a word in upstairs. You have no idea what it was like last night. I spent two hours holding my little brother while he cried. Cried over you. Begging me to tell him why you wouldn’t love him. Telling me that you were the only thing he wanted in all the world and if he couldn’t have you he didn’t want to live anymore. The most important thing in the world to him is your happiness. He wants me to do whatever I have to to make you stop, as he put it, wasting your time with him. He wants you and Mary and Rosie to get on with your lives. To forget him. He made me promise to send him away once he realized I wouldn’t ever harm him.”

John felt a sob break from him. “Oh God, Sherlock,” he said quietly as he touched Sherlock’s hair. 

“My brother is broken, John. To his mind, there’s absolutely nothing left for him. He needs to know you’re happy. And he’ll never believe you are as long as you’re with him. He never thought he was good enough for you. He told me that. And he thinks now, after they . . . after they . . . raped him, that he’s too damaged for anyone. He’s loved you since the day he met you, John. If you give him a little time, just a little time, maybe he’ll get well. Give him a few weeks.”

“Where are you sending him?”

“The best place available. They’ll get him on the right combination of antidepressants, put him into group therapy, and when he’s better, when he’s no longer suicidal, then maybe you should come and see him.” 

“Mycroft, I can’t leave him.”

“You have to think about him, John. Not yourself. He knows you will never love him the way he wants you to. He knows that you will only ever be happy with Mary. His heart, despite what I advised him, will only ever belong to you John. And since you don’t want it, you’ve destroyed it. His body is broken and so are his mind and his heart. He’s right when he says he has nothing to live for. But I will admit, I’m as selfish as the rest of his friends and my parents. I have no wish for my brother to die. I want him to be able to enjoy some semblance of the life he had before. And if I could force you to love him, I would. This is the best thing I can do. Until he’s stronger, you have to stay away from him.”

“I know how much I’ve hurt him. I know that. And it’s tearing me apart.”

“You’ll stay away?”

“Will you let me know how he’s doing?”

“I’ll give you periodic reports as I see fit.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” John stood up. He reached down and ran his thumb across one of Sherlock’s cheekbones. “Goodbye, Sherlock. Please get well. Please. I’ll stay away from you as long as I need to. Just know that I do love you and I only want the best for you.”

 

Two months later, John was sitting in his office. It was the end of a particularly boring day and he was just finishing his paperwork so he could get home to Mary and Rosie. He heard a knock on his door. “I’m sorry. I’m done for the day. One of the other doctors will see you . . .” He turned around and saw Mycroft standing there.

“Mycroft. Well, it’s about time you came to see me. How is he?”

“Not . . . well, John. I may have been mistaken. I need you to come with me.” 

John looked more closely at Mycroft. The man looked horrible. Deep dark circles were around his eyes, he’d lost weight. “What’s wrong?”

“Just come. I’ll explain.”

John followed Mycroft out of his office and locked the door behind him. They got into one of Mycroft’s cars and started away. John pulled out his mobile and called Mary telling her he wasn’t sure when he’d be home. They had driven for quite a while before Mycroft spoke. John noticed that Mycroft’s hands were trembling against the hilt of his umbrella.

“He’s much worse, John. They’ve tried but he hasn’t spoken since he arrived there. He won’t eat anything. They had to put in a feeding tube. He’s almost skeletal. He sits and stares and . . . drools. They have to do everything for him. They’ve given him drugs but they don’t work.” John closed his eyes in pain. 

When they arrived at the hospital, they hurried upstairs. Mycroft reached out and took John’s arm before he went into the room. “I warn you. They cut his hair because it was easier to deal with. They took out his glass eye and his false teeth. He doesn’t look anything like he did.”

John pushed through the door and saw Sherlock sitting in a wheelchair looking out the window. His hair was shorn, no longer than half an inch. He picked up a chair and moved it towards him. “Sherlock?” he asked. He put down the chair and sat down, looking at his best friend.

Tears sprang to his eyes. If he didn’t know this was Sherlock, he’d never have recognized him. His cheekbones looked to be so sharp that he was afraid to touch his face, scared that they’d break the skin. His left eye socket was empty, his cheeks sunken around the missing teeth. His mouth was open slightly, drool dripping onto his lap. But it was the awful, terrible emptiness in his eye. And he knew he’d help put it there. 

“Sherlock? Please look at me. Please.” He reached out and touched one of his poor broken hands. It was ice cold. He took his pulse. It was weak and thready. His breathing was shallow. Sherlock was dying. 

He sat there for a long time, speaking slowly, trying to get Sherlock to react to him. He watched Mycroft move into the room and sit at the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “You should have gotten me before this.”

“I didn’t know it had gotten this far,” Mycroft replied. “They told me he wasn’t doing well but they didn’t tell me he’d failed this much.” 

“Sherlock.” John reached out and touched his face, moving him so he was looking into John’s eyes. “Please. Please don’t leave me. I couldn’t bear it. Please come out of your head. Come away from those men. I know that’s where you are. I know you’re letting them hurt you over and over again. Please stop. Please don’t do this anymore. You’re killing yourself. Please stop.” John reached out and pulled Sherlock towards him. He laid Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and pulled his cold, emaciated body against his own. He started to hum one of the songs Sherlock would play when he woke screaming from his PTSD dreams of Afghanistan. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and laid his cheek against the bristles. He closed his eyes, letting the tears flow down his cheeks. 

“Don’t go,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me again. Please.” He continued to hum and began to rock Sherlock’s frail body back and forth. He was so frightened. He looked up at Mycroft and could see the tears shining on his face. 

It seemed like he was there for hours, talking and humming. He heard a hitch, finally, in Sherlock’s breathing. He carefully pulled himself away from him and touched his face. “Sherlock?”

The eye continued to stare vacantly. John carefully set him back in the chair.

“I have an idea,” he said to Mycroft. He got up and moved to the bed. Mycroft stood up. John pulled the covers back and went to get Sherlock. He picked him up easily. He weighed so little. He carried him to the bed and set him on his side. John lay down beside him and pulled Sherlock into his arms, setting his head on his own chest. He pulled him closer. “Cover us up, will you?”

Mycroft covered the two of them up. 

“I love you,” John whispered. “I love you, Sherlock. I can’t live my life without you. It’s been two months since I saw you and I worried about you every day. You’re my family. You’re as important to me as Mary and Rosie. I can’t be without you anymore. I need to know you’re safe and happy. I want you to get well. I’ve been talking to Mrs. Hudson. We’ve been talking about renovating 221B. And we’ll all be there to look after you, me, Mary, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson. We’ll all be there. And Molly and Greg. And Mycroft and your parents. We all miss you so much. We all want you to be with us. We all need you. If it wasn’t for you, none of us would know each other. None of us would be together. Come back and we’ll spend the rest of our lives helping you. Give us a chance. But you have to want to live. You have to want to come back to us. Please.”

He felt Sherlock’s hand move. He laid still and waited. The hand moved again, slowly clutching John’s jumper in a very weak grip. He carefully moved Sherlock’s head so he could look at him. “Sherlock, are you there?”

Slowly, oh, so slowly, something returned in his eye. Tears began to form and flow down his cheek. He blinked once, hard, and John knew that Sherlock was there.

“Jaaaa?” a raspy, disused voice began. 

John smiled at him. “Hey there. Hey.” He looked up at Mycroft. “Hand me that glass.” He gave Sherlock a sip of water. “Throat’s dry, right?”

“Jawn, you come for me?” Sherlock said very slowly. “Save me from them? They hurt me.” 

“You’re not in the warehouse anymore. You’re in the hospital. You’re with me and Mycroft.”

“Feel bad.” 

“I know. You’ve been very sick for so long. We’ll get you well. You have to fight now. Fight as hard as you did when you survived in Serbia. You have to fight to get well. You’re emaciated, Sherlock. You need to gain weight. You need to let the doctors here help you so you can try and feel better about yourself, so you can try and not let those five days take over your life. And I’ll be here to help you. All of us will. All you need to do is ask.” 

“I don’t think I can do it alone.”

John nodded and smiled. The old Sherlock would never have admitted something like that. John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “You’re never going to be alone. I promise.” 

Mycroft moved to John’s side.

Sherlock looked up. “My? You’ll help me, too?”

“Anything. Anything you need, Brother Mine.” Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand, squeezing gently. 

“I feel bad,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know, Sherlock. I know. Mycroft, could you get the doctor? We can get you some painkillers.”

Mycroft returned with Dr. Fraser. 

“Sherlock. It’s nice to see you awake.”

“’Lo Dr. Fraser.”

“I understand you’re in pain.”

“It all hurts. Please make it stop. Please make me forget,” the small voice was that of a wounded child begging for help. John found himself trying to swallow past a rather large lump in his throat. All he wanted to do was hold Sherlock tighter and protect him. He wanted to take those memories that were torturing him. He’d live the rest of his life with them if he could give Sherlock peace. 

“We can get you something for the physical pain. We’ll work on the rest. I can’t make you forget but I can give you ways to cope with it so it won’t overwhelm you. It won’t be something that will happen overnight. I told you before that it will take time. I can get you some sleeping aids so at least you can rest. And I can help you cope with eating. I won’t lie to you. It won’t be easy.”

“I want to get better. I want to stop hurting. Please help me. Please.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “I will help you.”

“John, will you stay with me? Just for awhile?”

“As long as you want.”

A nurse came through the door with a syringe. 

“This is the painkiller. It’ll just be a few minutes.” Dr. Fraser took the needle and quickly injected Sherlock. 

Sherlock seemed to relax a bit in John’s arms. 

“For now, we’ll keep your mind busy so you don’t let those memories overwhelm you. Talk with your friend and your brother. We’ll get the telly hooked up so you can have something to listen to. Small steps. I’m going to let you rest for now. You’ve just come out of something traumatic. I don’t want to push you. We’ll get you something to eat in a bit. Once you’ve rested a bit, we’ll put together a treatment plan. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded his head and snuggled into John. Somehow the sound of John breathing and his heart beating was calming Sherlock more than anything else could have. He felt so weak, so tired, so helpless. And he didn’t want to think of them anymore. He didn’t want to be inside his head anymore. He’d wanted to die. He’d wanted it all to go away. But there was something he was clutching onto. Some tiny spark was keeping his heart beating even though it was broken in a million pieces. He so loved John. And John wanted him to live. So he would live. It was as simple as that. If he had to live the rest of his life with only smiles, the occasional hug, and knowing that John was his best friend and would never be his lover, that John loved him as much as he was able, then that would have to do. 

He had broken John’s heart once before in jumping from St. Bart’s. And he knew that he couldn’t ever do it to him again. He’d live in physical, emotional, and mental pain for as long as he needed to to make sure that John was okay. He would do his best to become as independent as possible so that his friends wouldn’t be burdened with him. He knew he would be bored for the rest of his life, would feel useless and worthless for the rest of his life, but he needed to be there for John. He needed to go into battle once more. He needed to sacrifice himself once more. John was worth all of it.

So he would pretend. He would make them believe that he had accepted this so-called “life” that he was cursed to live. He could allow the despair but only when he was alone. 

He fell asleep cuddled in John’s arms and he felt safe and whole and he felt like he was at home. And he somehow knew that John would fight off the nightmares and let him rest.

 

Dr. Fraser asked him the first day if he still wanted to kill himself. John’s breath caught in his throat. Sherlock had insisted that John stay with him for the first session.

“Yes,” he said. John’s breath hitched and he clenched Sherlock’s hand. “But I won’t do it. I won’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“John doesn’t want me to. I’ll stay alive for John.”

“Sherlock, you can’t live just for me . . .”

“I won’t hurt you again like I did before. I heard what you said. I heard you beg me to live for you. So I will. I’ll suffer through all of this . . . all the pain, all the feeling worthless and useless for you, John. Just for you.”

“Sherlock, you have to want to live for yourself.”

“But I don’t want to. It hurts too much. But, as I said, I’ll live because John wants me to.”

“That’s not really the healthiest attitude to have.”

“I can’t help how I feel. I love John too much to put him through any more pain. I tried to kill myself but I knew deep down that it wouldn’t work. I knew they’d force me to live.” 

“You shouldn’t be thinking of it that way.” 

“But it is that way. I don’t want to live. They want me to. So, I’ll live to please them.”

“Sherlock, we’re not trying to force you to . . .”

“Yes, you are. I’m in too much pain. I hate what they did to me. I hate what I am now, what I’ll always be. I’ll never be Sherlock Holmes again. I’ll only ever be that poor pathetic detective who got himself raped and tortured by men he put away. So, when I get home, I won’t be leaving. I’ll be staying there so people won’t talk behind my back. I’ll wait for you and the others to visit. And that will be my whole life. I promise you John that I won’t hurt myself. I won’t try and kill myself again. I’ll wait. I know that you’ll all abandon me eventually. First one then all. You’ll be last, I think. But eventually, you’ll stop feeling obligated and go back to your life. Go back to being a doctor and going home to Mary and Rosie. And you’ll forget about me. You’ll forget that we ran through the streets of London and caught criminals. You’ll forget that I loved you more than my own life. You’ll forget and I’ll be free.”

“Free for what?”

“Free to do what needs to be done so all the pain goes away.”

“Sherlock,” John said as he squeezed his hand. “That won’t ever happen. I’ll never leave you.” 

“You say that now. But the time will come. I can’t give you anything like what you needed from me before. You’ll tell me that I’m selfish. You’ll tell me that suicide is selfish. But what’s worse? Isn’t forcing me to live when I don’t want to more selfish then me not wanting to suffer every day of what’s left of my life? The pain is almost unbearable, John. My body hurts. My mind hurts me remembering what they did to me. It won’t stop. I was never one to believe in metaphors but my heart is broken into a thousand pieces, John. It’s as broken as the rest of me. And you all keep telling me that it will all work out. That I’ll be okay. That I’ll magically recover or I’ll magically find a job or I’ll find someone to love me. But it won’t be okay. None of it will happen, John. None of it. I’m less than useless. I’m a waste of resources. I can’t go to work. I can’t support myself. Could you imagine me trying to work with the public? They’d look at me and scream. I used to take advantage of the way I looked to get people to do things for me. When I think of the things I did to poor Molly to get her to help me. I guess I’m paying for it now. And how could I ask anyone to love me when I hate myself?

“Don’t look so worried, John. I told you. I won’t kill myself. I won’t hurt myself. But when the time comes, and it will come, I’ll get Mycroft to put me back here. They’ll have the drugs to take away the pain, to take away the memories of what they did to me, to take away all of the memories I have left so I won’t miss any of you. I gave everything to keep all of you safe and I don’t expect anything back. I just want you to be happy. That’s all I want. I don’t want any of you wasting time worrying about poor brain-damaged, paralyzed Sherlock.”

John felt the tears dripping down his face. Sherlock was so broken. His best friend was teetering on the edge, so lost in his depression and pain that he was the barest push away from losing himself forever. John squeezed his hand tightly and sat up, drawing Sherlock into his arms. 

“Please, Sherlock. Please let me help you. Please don’t do this to yourself.”

“It’s already been done, John. It’s just a waiting game now. They destroyed me. I know it. It’s just time for the rest of you to know it now.” Sherlock’s voice was so calm, so . . . resigned. 

“Sherlock, this is just the depression talking,” Dr. Foster said. “I’ll give you coping mechanisms so that you won’t think about what they did to you all the time. We’ll get you on the right meds and you’ll feel better.” 

“Oh, Doctor,” Sherlock said, looking at her. “My parents hired the best doctors in the country to pull me out of depression when I was a teenager. If they didn’t work, why do you think your treatment will work?”

“Medications and therapies have improved a lot since you were a teenager. I have your records. I know what didn’t work. I promise you, Sherlock, we’ll find a way to help you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be helped.”

“Sherlock, please. Please try,” John asked.

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “John, you can make me live, though I don’t want to, but you really can’t make me want to get better. What’s the point?”

“You can’t live your life in misery.” 

“Why not? Those five days, those five men, they took everything from me. They broke me. They destroyed my body, my mind, my heart, and my soul. There’s nothing left here of the man who was Sherlock Holmes. He’s dead. It’s just the transport that’s left. And all of you don’t want me to have peace. I know it’s because you think it’s the best thing for me. I know that you have only the best in mind for me. You want me to get better. Well, as better as I can become. You want me to pretend that I’ve accepted what’s been done to me. You want me to pretend that I have a purpose and a use. You and Mycroft will try and find something for me to do to pretend that I can work. Maybe you’ll bring some young man around to try and prove that someone can care about me. Who knows? Maybe Mycroft will pay him to even degrade himself enough to have sex with me. All so I’ll feel better. Then you can all sit back and congratulate yourselves on fixing poor broken Sherlock. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t want a purpose. I don’t want someone to pretend to care about me. My life is over, John. I will continue to breathe, to eat, to drink, to sleep, to allow Dr. Fraser to try her tricks and potions. But, make no mistake, Sherlock Holmes is dead and gone.”

John sat, stunned. 

“That was quite the speech,” Dr. Fraser said. “It’s the depression talking. It’s the PTSD. You can’t see it now but one day you will change. You’ll never be able to forget what they did to you but you can cope with it.” 

John didn’t know what to say. Was he being selfish? Sherlock didn’t want to live. He would for John. He would because John wanted him to. But he was miserable. He was lost. He thought he had nothing to live for, no dreams. He had no purpose. The only thing he had left that he wanted was John. And John couldn’t give him that. 

“Sher . . . Sherlock. Please listen to me. I know it’s hard . . .”

“You know it’s hard? Seems to me you can walk, you can use your hands, you can work, you have someone who loves you and a daughter. I don’t have any of those things and I never will. I love you, John. I will only ever love you. I promised you my life and it’s yours. But you can’t tell me that you know that it’s hard. You weren’t tortured. You didn’t watch them cut your legs apart or cut your fingers off. You didn’t lose your virginity to someone shoving himself into you so hard that you bled for an hour after. You didn’t have your eye destroyed or your face scarred so badly that now I do look like a freak.”

“Sherlock . . .” Dr. Fraser said. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I promised you I’d live and I will. Don’t ask me for anything else. I can’t promise anything else.” 

That night, as John watched Sherlock sleep, he promised himself that he would do everything he could for Sherlock. He had no idea what that would entail, but he wouldn’t fail Sherlock, not like he’d done so many times in the past. He took one of Sherlock’s twisted hands, and held it to his mouth, kissing it softly.


	2. Weeping Under a Blue-Black Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has survived his suicide attempt and is recovering in the hospital. But he still feels like something's wrong. His feelings are a mess, and the love of his life is beyond his reach. Will he get home or is he a prisoner of his own emotions?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the warnings. This has descriptions of violence and rape. And a lot of angst.
> 
> It's also rated Mature for some mature language.

Sherlock was still sleeping when John thought back to what had been the worst day of his life. His father’s death, his getting shot, even the day he thought Sherlock had killed himself; none of them had prepared him for that day. 

They’d been frantically searching for Sherlock since he’d disappeared, but there’d been no trace. He, along with Mycroft and Greg, were surviving on adrenaline and bad coffee as they ran down every lead they could find. It was finally a call from a member of the homeless network that alerted them to the warehouse. 

Greg had driven them in his police car, sirens blaring. He and John had their guns out as they approached the darkened building. As they were about to go in, a carful of Mycroft’s heavily armed men arrived. They burst through the door, but the place seemed empty. Greg and Mycroft’s men had torches in their hands as they spread out.

John stuck close to Greg. One of Mycroft’s men found the power box and turned on the lights.

In the far corner, there seemed to be a body against the wall. John’s heart leapt to his throat as he ran towards it, ignoring Mycroft and Greg’s warnings. As he got closer, he slowed down. There was blood everywhere: on the floor, sprayed over the walls. Chains hung from the ceiling, the ends rusty with blood. There were knives and whips and a car battery with wires coming out of it.

The figure in the corner wasn’t moving. His back was destroyed. He’d been whipped until there were strips of skin hanging loose. It extended from his neck to his buttocks. His legs were twisted and mangled. 

“Oh God, Sherlock,” he whispered. Blood coated the back of his thighs, his hips bruised, his arse torn and bleeding. Someone had crudely carved the word “Mine” into his buttocks. 

John bent down, mindful of the puddle of blood he was in, and reached out to touch him. Sherlock’s arm was cold. He gently pulled him onto his back, afraid of possible spinal injuries. The sight that greeted him made the vomit rise into his mouth. He turned around and threw up, not able to control himself. 

Greg and Mycroft arrived just then. Mycroft cried out and turned away. Greg looked green, as he screamed into his mobile for an ambulance.

John wiped his mouth and turned back to look at his best friend, or what was left of him. His feet were crushed. John doubted with the leg and foot injuries that Sherlock would ever walk again. Bruises and cuts covered his body. There were burns on his nipples and genitals. Lines had been carved into his chest. His arms were obviously broken and five of his fingers had been amputated. A good number of his ribs were probably broken, given the massive bruising. But it was his face that made the bile rise into John’s mouth again. He was almost unrecognizable. His nose was badly broken, many of his teeth were either gone or broken, his jaw was sitting at the wrong angle. There was a deep cut from his hairline, down through his left eyebrow, and through his left eye. The eye itself was destroyed. And they had carved a Glasgow grin into his face, deep cuts from the corners of his mouth towards his ears. John had only ever seen that once, and the patient had been scarred for life. His other eye was swollen shut, and he was breathing hoarsely from his mouth. 

John reached out a trembling hand and touched the side of his neck. Sherlock’s heart was barely beating. His breathing was shallow.

“Get me a blanket or something to cover him with!” he yelled.

One of Mycroft’s men handed him a blanket from an emergency kit.

“What have they done to you, Little Brother?” John heard Mycroft’s broken voice whisper.

“I’m not losing you again, Sherlock,” John said as he wrapped him up. “You’re not leaving me again. Just get that through your mind right now.”

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The paramedics froze for a moment when they saw Sherlock but quickly set to work trying to stabilize him. His heartbeat was getting weaker, and his blood pressure was dangerously low.

“We’re going to have to go now. If we wait any longer . . .”

John nodded. He got into the back of the ambulance with Sherlock. Sherlock coded once on the way, and John was barely able to get him back. He was rushed into the A&E trauma unit, and John was pushed back out the door when he tried to follow. He sat down in the waiting room and stared down at his hands, crimson with Sherlock’s blood. He sighed brokenly and looked up as a nurse came to him and led him to the loos. As he washed his hands mechanically, he looked up into the mirror. His eyes were haunted. He wished he could get the sight of Sherlock’s ruined body out of his mind, but it was stamped there, overwriting everything he’d seen in Afghanistan or any of the murders he and Sherlock had investigated. He scrubbed his hands across his face as if he could erase it somehow and went back to the waiting room.

It wasn’t long before Mycroft and Greg joined him. Together the three men sat vigil, waiting for news. Slowly the rest of their group joined them: Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Molly, Anderson, and Billy. An hour and a half later, Sherlock’s parents came through the door.

After four hours, a doctor came out. “Is there someone here for a . . .” He looked at the chart. “Mr. Holmes?”

All of them stood up.

“How’s our son?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

“How many of you are family?”

“We’re all family or as close to family that he has,” she replied.

“Maybe we should move into the quiet room,” the doctor suggested.

John turned white. “Oh God, he’s not . . . not dead, is he?”

“No. No. Please follow me.”

When they were all sitting, the doctor began. “Mr. Holmes is in the recovery room right now. We lost him twice on the table. He’s very severely injured. There’s been a massive bleed inside his brain. We’ve gone in and relieved the pressure. He’s had several very serious concussions. I’m afraid it won’t be a question of whether there will be brain damage. It will only be a question of how severe it will be.” 

“What exactly do you mean?” Mycroft asked, his voice shaking.

“Memory loss, loss of cognitive function, possible regression. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. We won’t know until he wakes up. His legs have been severely damaged, the bones badly broken and splintered. His feet were crushed so badly that some of the bones have been pulverized. I’m afraid it’s highly unlikely that he’ll ever walk again. Five of his fingers were removed. The rest of his fingers and his hands have been crushed, and there’s significant nerve damage in them and in his arms. It’s doubtful he’ll ever have full use of them again. Most of his ribs were broken, and he had a collapsed lung. There’s damage to the liver and kidneys. We’ve put him on dialysis until he’s stronger. We’ve had to remove his spleen. There are third-degree electrical burns on his chest and genitals. We’ve had to remove what little skin remained on his back. There’s massive damage to the muscles there and on his buttocks. I’m afraid there is quite extensive internal tearing, including tearing of the intestines, due to quite severe and repeated sexual assaults. We’ve had to remove his left eye, and we’ve sewn up the damage to his face and reset the broken bones. There may be something a plastic surgeon can do, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, he’s very, very weak. We’re transfusing him to get his blood volume back up. We’ve put him on a ventilator to help with his breathing, and we’re monitoring his heart and blood pressure. He’s severely dehydrated and malnourished so we’ve got him on an IV and inserted a feeding tube. I’m not going to lie to you. It doesn’t look good. It’s a miracle he survived the surgery, to be honest. We’ll make him as comfortable as possible; though I’m afraid he’s in a coma.”

“What are his chances?” John asked.

“If he can survive the next 24 hours, I’d say 30%.” 

Molly and Mrs. Hudson burst into tears. The rest had tears in their eyes. 

“Can . . . can we see him?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“Not now. He’s still being cleaned up. We’d like to get him a bit more stabilized before he has visitors.”

John felt his heart clench. He stood up and left the room. Mary followed at his heels. He made it about five metres down the hall before he collapsed against the wall and slid to the floor. “No. No. No. No,” he whispered over and over as tears fell from his eyes. Mary got down on the floor beside him and took him into her arms. She leaned the side of her face against the top of his head, her tears dripping on him.

He collapsed into her arms, clinging to her. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You know Sherlock. He’ll survive. He always does.”

“You didn’t see him. You didn’t see what they did to him,” he sobbed. “They beat him, cut him, burned him. They raped him, Mary. They’ve paralyzed him. And if he’s brain damaged . . . He can’t live like that. He wouldn’t want to live like that. Especially if he remembers how he used to be. I can’t lose him. I can’t lose him, Mary.”

“You won’t. You won’t. I promise. He’ll be okay.” She rocked him for a long time before he calmed down. Before the sobs turned into sniffles, and the occasional hiccough. Mary sat back and pulled a tissue from her purse, wiping John’s face. She helped him up. He disappeared into the loo to wash his face. He took her hand as they made it back into the room. 

Molly was softly crying in Greg’s arms. Mycroft and Mr. Holmes were comforting Mrs. Holmes. Mrs. Hudson had tears dripping down her face. John went over and sat beside her. 

She leaned into him. “We can’t lose him again, John. Not again.”

John put his arm around her. “No, we can’t.”

Anderson whispered into Billy’s ear, and the two of them left the room. Twenty minutes later, they returned with tea and sandwiches for everyone.

It was a long night, but not one of them left. They started telling stories about Sherlock while they were eating. 

John looked at everyone as he sipped the last of his tea. Sherlock had never thought of himself as being someone that was liked. At most, he believed that people tolerated him because of his genius. But the people in this room really cared for him. “Oh, Sherlock, if you could only see this,” he whispered under his breath.

By morning, another doctor came in to fill them in. “Mr. Holmes coded during the night. We were almost ready to call it but he rallied. He’s still very weak and still in a coma. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, if you’d like to, you can visit but just for a few minutes.”

They came out ten minutes later, both of them crying.

“Doctor,” Mycroft asked. “May I see my brother?”

“Alright, but just for a few minutes.”

“Mycroft,” John said.

“I’d like John to come in as well.”

“Just family.”

“He is family.”

Mycroft and John were shown into the room. They both gasped when they saw the covered figure on the bed. There were tubes everywhere, it seemed, and bandages. An IV was inserted into the vein in his neck. He’d been intubated and a machine was breathing for him. His entire face was bandaged, the long curls shaved. A feeding tube was inserted into his nose, and a catheter bag hung off the side of the bed. John picked up the chart and looked through it. When he saw the readings, he wished he hadn’t. 

“What does it say, John?” Mycroft asked, his voice thick with emotion.

“It’s not good. His heart is weak. They’ve run a full panel of tests on his head. There’s swelling in his brain. Hopefully, it’s only from the surgery. They’re run a full panel of STI tests. The preliminary results are good.” John put the chart back as tears welled in his eyes. He reached out and touched the back of Sherlock’s bandaged hand.

“We’re all here for you, Sherlock. You listen to me. You fight. Alright? Don’t you give up on us. We’re here for you. All of us.”

“Look what they’ve done to my brother,” Mycroft croaked as he put his hand to his mouth. John was surprised, even under these circumstances, to see tears dripping from Mycroft’s eyes. “Serbia was nothing compared to this.” 

John moved towards Mycroft, but he wiped his face and looked down at his brother again.

“If he survives this, I’ll get him whatever he needs. Whatever he wants. My brother will want for nothing.”

“Don’t say if, Mycroft,” John said, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face.

“No,” Mycroft cleared his throat. “No, quite right.”

They stood there for a few minutes more before the nurse had shooed them out. 

 

Sherlock stirred, bringing John out of his head. Sherlock moaned slightly and opened his eyes. 

“Is the pain bad?” he asked as he stood and moved to Sherlock’s side.

“It’s bearable,” Sherlock said, his face tight with pain.

“You don’t have to suffer. I can call the nurse.”

“No, it’s alright, John. I’m getting used to it.”

“Pain isn’t something to get used to. I don’t want you in pain.” 

“There’s only so much that medicine can do. You know I’ve got a high tolerance to pain meds.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“A drink of water, maybe.”

John poured a glass from the pitcher on the bedside table. He stuck a straw in it and helped Sherlock to drink. 

The nurse came in with his medication, and Sherlock meekly took the pills and waited while she changed his IV. 

“Your breakfast will be here soon, Mr. Holmes,” the nurse said as she changed the drainage bag from his catheter.

When the breakfast came, John sat on the edge of the bed and fed Sherlock. Both remained mute as Sherlock chewed slowly. He had been able to eat the day before and was doing well, the flashbacks that had crippled him before seemingly under control. When he was done, John wiped his face and sat considering Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing. Just thinking about what you said yesterday.”

“It’s bothering you?”

“Of course it’s bothering me. You said you would live because I don’t want you to die.” 

“It’s the only thing that will keep me here, John. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“And I appreciate that. But there’s got to be something more for you.”

“But there isn’t. There never will be.”

“Sherlock . . .” John began.

Sherlock sighed deeply and looked at John. “I can’t face what I am now. So I’ll forget that I could walk and run. I’ll forget I could play the violin and do experiments. I’ll forget I was the world’s only consulting detective. That I was special. That I could sweep into a crime scene, make some deductions, and catch murderers.

“Instead, I’ll wait for someone to come get me out of bed in the morning, wash me, dress me, take me to the loo, feed me. I’ll sit out in my wheelchair and watch the world go by while I wait for one of you to come and visit me. I’ll put a fake smile on my face and ask how your lives are and what’s going on in the real world.

“I’ll ignore the heartbreak. To know that you’ll never, ever want me. To know that I’ll never look up at a crime scene to see you smiling at me and telling me that I’m amazing or fantastic or wonderful. I never believed that there was such a thing as a broken heart but there is. It’s as broken as my mind and my body.”

“Sherlock, please. I don’t want any of those things for you. I want you to be happy.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “Don’t be so naïve. I’ve told you that I’m living for you. But I can’t be happy.”

“But you can.”

“How? How can I be happy when everything has been taken from me? When I live in terrible pain everyday? My back, my legs, my arms, my head. And to know that I’m going to be alone. That I’m useless and worthless. But that pain is what you want for me. So I’ll exist. That’s all I can do.”

“I . . . I don’t want you to be in pain. How . . . how can you say that?”

“You want me to live. My whole life is pain now. There’s nothing else. So I’ll be in pain for you. To please you.”

“It doesn’t please me that you’re in pain, Sherlock.”

“You can’t have it both ways, John. If I live, I’ll be forever in pain. If I die, I’ll be free of pain.” 

“There are other options.”

“No there isn’t. Pain or peace.”

“You can learn to live with the pain. Dr. Fraser can help you cope with it. You can cope with the physical pain and learn to deal with the PTSD. I did, so can you.”

“John, I can’t make myself want to live. I’ll only do it because you want me to live. You’re forcing me into this.”

“I’m not forcing you into anything.”

“You want me to live.”

“Of course I do. You’re my best friend.”

“You have other friends. You can make more.”

John looked at him, shocked. “Don’t say that. You’re so important to me.” 

“Not important enough. I love you, and it’s not enough. The pain in my heart won’t go away. Believe me; it’s worse than the physical pain.”

John touched Sherlock’s arm and spoke softly. “You’ll find someone else. I’ve had my heart broken before. It feels like the end of the world. But it will get better. I promise.”

“I’m not one to believe in things like soul mates, John. But I believe with every fibre in my being that you’re mine. I never loved anyone before you. And I can’t love anyone else.” Sherlock looked at John, his eye full of pain. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. And if I can’t have you, I’ll be alone forever.”

John shook his head. “You won’t be. I promise. I’ll never leave you.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll get tired of me pining over you at some point. Mary will get tired of it and make you choose between her and me. You don’t love me and never will. That’s why I didn’t want you to choose. You’ll always choose her. I’ll always lose.”

John felt a lump form in his throat. 

“I’ll never be the most important person in anyone’s life, least of all you.”

“But you have the rest of your life. You’ll find someone.”

“How? Who wants someone who’s brain damaged, paralyzed, and ugly. I’m sure you and Mycroft will hire someone to deliver food or something to come and flirt with me to make me think I’m still desirable. He might even hire some poor man to fuck me.”

“We would never, ever do that to you. There’s no reason to think you can’t find someone.” 

“I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want anyone else to touch me. I suppose at least I won’t die a virgin. They took care of that.”

“That’s not how it works, Sherlock. Technically, they took it but you didn’t ask them to. You only really lose your virginity when it’s consensual.”

“Then I’ll be a virgin until the day I die.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Unless you decide you can stomach touching me or even looking at me for more than a few minutes.”

“It’s not that, I’m . . .”

“Not gay, I know. You might as well have it tattooed on your forehead,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Three Continents Watson — who slept your way through so many women. How many of them ever loved you? How many of them would die for you or kill for you? Do you honestly think Mary would sacrifice what I have for you?”

John couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that what Sherlock said was true. He’d seen the look of love on Sherlock’s face. He’d felt it in the depths of his heart. No one had ever looked at him like that. He knew Mary didn’t love him that much. And to be truthful, he knew that he didn’t love her with that depth of feeling.

Sherlock shook his head. “But it doesn’t matter does it? You wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole even if you were gay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can hardly look at me now. I’m all scars and ugliness. You’d have to put a bag over my face and have me fully dressed to fuck me.”

“Sherlock, I can’t stand to hear you talking about yourself that way.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

“You aren’t ugly. You’re not useless or worthless or any of the other things you’ve been saying. None of it’s true.”

“Of course it’s true. You have eyes. My feelings can’t be hurt anymore. I was so vain once. I guess I’m paying for it now. People wince and turn away when they see me now. The hair I took pride in. I can’t even brush it. I’m going to keep it short from now on. I’m the ugly duckling that people make fun of and laugh at.”

“No one’s laughing at you.”

“Let me go to the Met, and we’ll see if there’s no one who’ll laugh at me. All the officers who hated me for showing them up. Donovan would be the one leading them. I can hear her screaming with laughter and telling everyone how much I deserved it. How she wished she’d been there to see me humiliated. To see them make me scream and cry and beg. To hear me whimper at night, whispering your name and begging for you to come and rescue me. Oh, how she’d have laughed.” Tears shimmered in his eyes.

Tears sparkled on John’s face. To hear again how he’d failed his friend both emotionally and physically broke his heart. 

“You don’t need to pretend, John. I don’t need your crocodile tears. Go home, John. Go home to the ones you love. Leave me behind and don’t come back.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Please, John. I beg you. Please go and leave me to my misery.” Sherlock turned away from John.

“Sherlock . . . please don’t do this. You know I love you . . .”

“Don’t you dare say that. Go. Now. And don’t come back. You’ve got what you wanted. I won’t kill myself. I’ll suffer the rest of my pathetic life for you.”

“I . . .”

“Go,” Sherlock whispered in misery.

John gave up. He stood and looked at the poor man. He understood how Sherlock felt. His heart burned in his chest and his mind roiled with guilt. “I’ll be back when you feel better.”

“Don’t bother,” he heard Sherlock whisper as he closed the door. 

 

Sherlock didn’t even look up when Dr. Fraser came through the door. The nurse had just been there to feed him lunch. He’d managed a whole bowl of soup and three quarters of a sandwich. He knew he’d have to gain more weight before they’d let him go home.

He wanted nothing more than to be back at 221B. He hated the hospital. He hated the way the nurses and doctors looked at him. 

He’d already made arrangements with Mycroft to make the needed changes at home. There would be a lift and a wheelchair ramp, changes made in the loo to accommodate a wheelchair, changes in his room to accommodate medical equipment.

When Dr. Fraser stepped up to the edge of his bed, he looked up at her.

“I hear you’ve eaten most of your lunch.”

“Do I get a gold star?” he asked.

“No,” she said, used to his sarcasm. “Are you ready for your session? I don’t think you’ll do well in group therapy, so I think you’ll do better one-on-one.”

“Truth be told, I don’t want to talk to you, let alone anyone else.”

“Give it a try, hey?”

Sherlock reluctantly nodded. Dr. Fraser sat down next to him.

Sherlock hesitated. He still wasn’t sure he completely trusted her. He told her about his fears that his family and friends would abandon him. About hating what his life had become.

“I understand how you feel. It’s hard to adjust to this. To go from having everything to nothing. To not even being in charge of your own body. To have to deal with the indignity of having someone have to do everything for you. It’s a long road, and it’s a hard one. And I know it’s hard realizing that you’ve lost so much. And I know how easy it is to give up, to try to will yourself away.”

Sherlock looked at her. He couldn’t detect any lie coming from her, but he wasn’t sure. He wanted to trust her, and he wanted to talk, he did. 

“I know that you mean well. I just . . . I have trust issues.”

“I understand. We can talk as much as you want or as little as you want. I’m always here.” She smiled at him. 

Sherlock considered her for a moment before a small smile played across his face. The two of them talked for half an hour.

 

Dr. Fraser came in again later in the afternoon and asked how he was. He looked at her and said, “I think I’m . . . okay.”

Dr. Fraser smiled. “Good. Now, this afternoon, I thought we could talk about your nightmares.”

Over the next few days, Dr. Fraser and Sherlock talked longer and longer. He slowly opened up more and more about the kidnapping, his feelings for John, and his fears.

“I love him with all my heart. I just don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think I hate him for what he’s done, for not loving me back. I hate that I can’t control this.”

“I know it’s a cliché, Sherlock, but the heart wants what the heart wants. It’s never a mistake to love.”

“But John and I never shared anything.”

“You’re best friends. You loved him. You loved him enough to give up everything for him. You said you’ve told him to go home to his family because you want him to be happy.”

“I do. His happiness is more important than mine.”

“Then you do love him. Sometimes love hurts a lot but as long as you feel it, it’s the best thing in the world. I know it hurts that he doesn’t love you the way you love him. But it doesn’t change the love you have, the love you feel. I’m sure he loves you in his own way.”

“Do you think so?”

“It’s possible. What makes you love him so?”

Sherlock stopped to think. “He makes me feel at home. He makes me feel cared about. I never really felt that before. He made sure I ate and drank and slept. He took care of one when I was sick or hurt. He made me feel safe and warm. He worried about me. We laughed and talked. I protected him and he protected me. I feel whole when I’m with him. When he’s gone, I feel like part of me is missing.”

“That certainly sounds like love to me,” she said.

He looked at her. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely. Let those feelings be there. I know it hurts that he’s with someone else but at least you can see him. You can be with him.”

“I suppose you’re right. If nothing else, I can be near him. I wish I hadn’t told him though. He’s uncomfortable around me now. And I’ve said some pretty awful things to him.”

“You were hurt. Of course you would have lashed out. He’ll forgive you. He knows that you love him. He knows that you only want his happiness. The two of you can work it out. At least you’ve got his friendship, his presence in your life. As long as he still makes you feel safe and feel at home, maybe that can be enough for now. You never know what the future will bring.”

Sherlock nodded. She’d given him a lot to think about. “I have family and friends. I’m just afraid that they’ll abandon me. My parents both cry every time they see me. I used to do work for my brother. Now that I can’t anymore, I have a feeling he’ll disappear from my life gradually. My friends will leave one by one. Even John. I’m not me anymore. I have nothing left of myself. I’m of no use to them.”

“Your friends care about you because you’re you, not because of what you can do for them.”

“Theoretically, I know that. But I’m afraid. I was so alone before I met them. I don’t want how I am now to make them leave.”

“It’s always a risk. The ones who truly love you will continue to love you.”

“I hope you’re right.”

 

John had avoided seeing Sherlock for several days after he’d told him to go and never come back. He wanted to give Sherlock a chance to cool off. John knew that Sherlock was in a lot of pain, and he knew that he’d caused a lot of that pain. The guilt of it was eating at John so badly that he didn’t know how to deal with it.

Mary had been sympathetic at first but was growing tired of John moping around the house and told him to go see Sherlock and iron it out.

He felt like he had butterflies in his stomach when he went through the door to Sherlock’s room. He wasn’t in the bed. John walked down to the nurses’ station. “Excuse me. I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“He’s in physical therapy right now. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

John thanked her and went back to Sherlock’s room. He wasn’t sure whether he should sit in the room and wait or stay outside. After a minute or two, he went in and sat by the bed. 

He looked up as Sherlock was wheeled into the room. The male nurse picked him up and settled him in the bed.

Sherlock looked at John.

“I wanted to come and see you. I know that you said that you didn’t want me to come back, but . . .”

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean it.”

John blinked. He’d never expected an apology from Sherlock of all people. He reached out and touched the back of Sherlock’s hand. “I’m glad. I didn’t know if you wanted to see me again.”

“I know. And I’m sorry about that. I felt so hurt, so . . . rejected.”

“I think I understand Sherlock. I really think I do, and I understand how it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“I know. It will always hurt, but I can’t live without you in my life.”

John smiled at him. “And you never will be. I promise.”

“Do you?” Sherlock looked so vulnerable right at that moment that John’s heart clenched.

“Of course I do. You’re my best friend.”

“Even though I’m different?”

“Of course, Sherlock. I’ll always be here for you. I would never abandon you because you were hurt.”

It startled John to see tears start to fall down Sherlock’s face. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled Sherlock into his arms. He felt Sherlock’s arms snake around his back.

Sherlock silently cried against John’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I do love you, so much. You’ve done so much for me.”

“You make me feel like I’m home,” Sherlock whispered. 

“I’m glad. I just want you to be happy.”

“I don’t think I can be, John. There’s too much that’s gone — too much I remember doing that I can never do again. It haunts me.”

“I know. But we can find other things for you to do. Right now, we’ve got to concentrate on getting you well. On getting some weight back on you and getting you home.”

“I’ve gained back some weight. It won’t be long.”

“Good. I’m glad. Dr. Fraser must really be helping you.”

“I think it’s the meds and talking to her. She helped me realize it’s better to have you in my life than not at all.”

“Really?”

John and Sherlock sat for a long time, talking about preparations for his return home. Sherlock told him his appetite had returned, and he was hungry for Angelo’s fettuccini alfredo. 

John laughed. “Tomorrow when I come to visit, I’ll bring you some and a big order of garlic bread. Sound good?”

“Wonderful.” They talked like they hadn’t for a long time.

Dr. Fraser came in two hours later for their session. John stood up and said his goodbyes.

Dr. Fraser sat down. “So, you and John have made up.”

“I think he was worried I would kick him out.”

“You did tell him to leave and never come back.”

“I told him I wanted him in my life. That I needed him in my life and, if all there was was friendship, then that was fine.”

“How did he react?”

“Better than I thought. I think we’ll be okay.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“It’s not what I want, but it’s the most I can ever hope for. Even if this hadn’t happened. Even if John was gay, I couldn’t expect him to want to touch me now. Not after what they did to me.”

“You were tortured, Sherlock. You had no control over that. They scarred you, yes, but anyone who truly loves you wouldn’t care.”

“But they raped me. I wanted John to be the first one. I wanted John to be the only one. And if I couldn’t have him then I didn’t want anyone to ever touch me. But they took it. They spoiled it. I’m dirty now. I’m disgusting.”

“You aren’t. You aren’t any of those things. Oh Sherlock. They did this to you. You didn’t want it. They raped you. They did it to hurt you. It wasn’t about sex.”

“That’s what John says.”

“And he’s right. And someday . . . someday you’ll be ready to trust someone to touch you.”

“I don’t know. Is . . . is it always like that?” he asked, his voice small.

“Like what?”

“Is sex always about pain and humiliation?” He looked at his lap. “If I were to be with John . . . would he hurt me like that?”

“Sherlock . . . look at me.”

When he looked up, she gasped at the pain on his face. “Making love is never about pain. Never about humiliation. It’s about sharing your bodies with each other and giving pleasure. Do you honestly think John would hurt you like they did?”

“I would do anything for him. If he wanted to . . . I’d probably let him.”

“Sherlock, please. Never think that. You deserve to be loved.”

“But I’ve never felt loved. No one has ever loved me, no one. I’ve had friends and family that, in their own way, I suppose, love me but never anyone love me like that.”

“You’ve never had sex before?” 

He shook his head. 

“That doesn’t mean that no one ever will.”

“John keeps saying that.” 

“It’s true.” 

Sherlock changed the subject and continued to talk with Dr. Fraser until their session was done. 

 

Over the next two weeks, Sherlock felt better. He was sure it was a combination of the medication for his depression, his sessions with Dr. Fraser, and John’s daily visits. He was still sad a lot but not all the time and that was more than he’d ever hoped. When he was talking with John sometimes he could almost forget. As he studied the strong lines of John’s jaw, his lips, his hair — he could almost forget about all of it. The pain would go away, the sense of loss, the regret. And he even found himself laughing once.

But then John would leave, and it came thundering back. 

 

And he was slowly accepting what he couldn’t change. He would never walk or be able to use his hands. There would always be scars and pain. His mind would never return to genius level. He’d never solve crimes or deduce again. 

Though he’d lost almost everything, he had realized that his heart, though aching, had opened more. He felt things he’d never allowed himself to feel before. He’d kept a tight rein on his emotions all of his life. But now he told Dr. Fraser about the abuse he remembered as a boy. How his genius had alienated the other children. How the boys had beat and tormented him. How they’d call him “Freak” and steal his books or his lunch money. How many nights he’d walk home in tears, drying them before he walked through the door, hiding the bruises.

He told her of feeling so alone for so long. About how happy he was when his parents bought him Redbeard and how truly devastated he was when he had died. How it had made him put a tight rein on his emotions.

Dr. Fraser encouraged him to explore his emotions. He’d certainly cried enough in the last few weeks. He supposed it was better than becoming angry. But Dr. Fraser wanted him to express that as well.

“Aren’t you angry about what they did? Aren’t you angry about the way you’ve been treated all your life?” Dr. Fraser asked him.

“Of course I am. I hate it. They took everything from me. Everyone treats me like I’m an object of pity. And they keep telling me it’ll all be okay. They tell me I’ll get a job, that I’ll get my mind back, that I’ll find someone else to love. Why won’t they listen? Why won’t they accept that my life is over?”

“Your life isn’t over, Sherlock.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock said. He felt the anger starting to sweep over him. “I’m nothing. I can’t think anymore. I can’t remember all the things I used to be able to do. I can’t do anything anymore. I can’t play my violin.” He was breathing hard. Tears pricked in his eye. He wanted to scream. “Is it any wonder I don’t want to live like this? I want all the pain to go away. What’s wrong with that? I want to forget all of it. I need to open my eyes and have this all be a dream.”

“You have to let it go. You have to accept that your life has changed. You’re upset. You’re sad and you’re angry. And you’re scared. All of that is justified. You can’t bottle up your emotions anymore. You’ve repressed so much throughout your life. It’s good that you’re talking to me and to John. But I think you need to talk to your parents and your brother and your other friends. I think you need to tell them how you feel.”

“I don’t think I can,” Sherlock said, fear suddenly tearing at his insides as the anger melted away. “My parents just cry every time they see me. My brother . . . I can’t talk to him.”

“You could talk to them one at a time. I think that you need to let the people in your life know what upsets you, and what you need from them.”

“I can’t ask them to look after me. To make sacrifices for me. I won’t beg them to visit me. I won’t give up what little pride I have left. You want me to tell you everything. And now this . . . this wreck of a body, this transport,” he said, almost spitting the word, “leaves me unable to do anything. It’s humiliating to have total strangers seeing my body, my scars, having to deal with my bodily functions. I’m helpless. If someone attacks me, I can’t even defend myself. 

“My mind is gone. So many of my memories. I can’t control anything.” He heard the tremble in his voice and hated himself for it. “I have no control over any part of my life now! I can’t control where I go, who I see, what I do. I can’t control my mind or my body or my emotions. It’s all gone!” He was breathing hard, tears staining his face as he pounded the arms of his wheelchair with his useless hands. “I’m a prisoner in my body, in my mind. I want to be free!”

Dr. Fraser looked at him. “I understand all of what you’re feeling. Anyone would. Every one of your emotions is valid. You’ve undergone a trauma that’s affected every aspect of your life. And I understand why the loss of control in your life is devastating. I think you should talk to your friends and family about it. I think they’ll understand.”

“It’s not understanding that I need. I need to feel some part of my life is still in my control. I’m trapped here. I can’t go home until you think I’m sane enough, until I tell you every little secret I have. Until I’ve gained enough weight. I just want to go home and lock the rest of the world out. Why can’t I go home? I’ve nearly regained all the weight. I’m on your pills. I’ll have a caregiver who’ll make me take them. I’ll have to see you when you show up. Please let me go.”

“You aren’t a prisoner, Sherlock. You’re here because you’re in deep pain. Because you’re depressed. Yes, the medication is working, and you’ve come a long away. I know that there are preparations being made for your return home, but the fact that you want to isolate yourself isn’t a good sign.”

“Fine. I’ll go out every night. I’ll sit outside 221B in my wheelchair and let people walk by and point and whisper. Let the press come by and take pictures. But why? Why would you think I want to be made fun of . . . pitied? Why can’t I just want to be alone? It’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s hurting you, Sherlock.”

“Then let it. Are you going to keep me locked up here until I conform to your definition of happiness? I’m supposed to just accept all of this, pretend I won’t be ridiculed, and paste a fake smile on my face? I want to go home.”

“I know you do. I know you’re worked hard. You’ve made so much progress. I’m afraid if you go home now, it will be a bit of a backward step. I have one more drug I’d like to add to the medications you’re taking. It’ll take a few weeks to fully take effect. That plus more therapy should help.”

“A few weeks? But . . . I . . . I thought I just had to gain the weight back. I only have a few kilos left. I’ve eaten everything you’ve given me. I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“I know you have. You’re just not ready in my opinion.” Her eyes were hard and unyielding.

Sherlock felt his stomach clench. He felt fear well up in him. He felt nauseated — bile rose into his throat. He leaned over the side of his wheelchair just before he vomited. Dr. Fraser was on her feet in an instant, calling for a nurse. Sherlock felt wretched as his lunch ended up on the floor. He continued to dry heave for long minutes after until every muscle in his torso was aching. There was a rushing sound in his ears. He was trying to drag air into his aching lungs. It felt like everything was going dark around him. He felt someone pick him up and put him in the bed, pulling up the covers. Someone wiped his face and held a cup to his lips. They were saying something, but he couldn’t hear them. The air felt heavy in his lungs. He breathed faster and faster, unable to get enough air. He felt someone touch his face. But the darkness seemed to be closing in on him again. His head was pounding. As the blackness finally took him, he found himself wishing once more that it would keep him forever.

When he woke again, it was a few hours later. The light from outside was late afternoon. He felt dizzy, the pain still throbbing in his head. His mouth tasted awful, and he remembered being sick. He reached over to his table. The telephone had been hooked up in case he needed anything. 

It took him four tries and a lot of patience, but he finally managed the number.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” he heard his brother say.

“My, can you come? Please? I need you. Can you please come right away?” Sherlock hated the tremble in his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay. Please, I need you. Please.”

“I’ll be right there.”

True to his word, Mycroft walked through the door twenty minutes later. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his face lined with concern.

“My, please help me,” Sherlock said, holding his hand out to his brother. “Help me.”

“What do you need?” Mycroft asked as he stepped towards the bed.

“I want to go home. I can’t be here anymore, My. Please. I hate it here. I’ve done everything they’ve asked. Please make them let me go. You can do it. You have the authority. I know you can. Dr. Fraser won’t let me go. I asked today. She wants me to stay for weeks more.”

“Weeks? I thought a week at the most.”

“Please, My. Please.”

Mycroft squeezed his brother’s hand. “I’ll see what I can do, Sherlock.”

Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of hope. No one could say no to Mycroft. He’d ruined people for refusing his wishes before. His head was still pounding, but he smiled nonetheless.

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft returned with Dr. Fraser. The look on Mycroft’s face said it all. Sherlock felt tears begin to pour down his cheeks.

“Sherlock . . .” Mycroft began. “I’ve talked to Dr. Fraser. She thinks you aren’t ready yet. She told me about the panic attack you had earlier. Under the . . .”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, pain radiating from him. “I’m never going home, am I?” he sobbed in a quiet, broken voice. “You’re going to keep me locked up here until I die, aren’t you?”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, stunned.

“Of course not,” Dr. Fraser said. “You aren’t going to be here forever. I promise.”

Sherlock wasn’t listening. He closed his eyes and did his best to turn on his side. He wrapped his arms around his torso, hugging himself, and began to slowly rock back and forth as tears fell from his eyes and heart-wrenching sobs tore from his throat.

He felt Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder and heard him trying to talk to him, promising him his freedom, promising him he’d go home. But Sherlock didn’t believe him. He continued to sob and rock, realizing he was well and truly alone now. They had gotten rid of him. They were leaving him to rot in this hospital. He imagined Mycroft had cleared out 221B, throwing out all of his things, and Mrs. Hudson had rented it to someone else. He was sure he’d never see any of them again, now that he knew the truth. Mycroft, his parents, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Anderson, Billy, Mary, Rosie — and especially not John. John was probably relieved. 

Sherlock retreated into his head. He ignored Mycroft and Dr. Fraser. He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore. He laid there staring at the wall. Something felt broken inside of him. His hope was completely gone. He’d been looking forward to going home. To feeling safe. But it was gone.

He tried to think why — why they’d lied to him. He supposed it was just so they didn’t have to deal with poor, broken Sherlock. If he stayed here, his health insurance would pay for him so long as he was sectioned. That way Mycroft wouldn’t have to pay for him anymore. His parents wouldn’t have to see him anymore and be reminded of his disfigurement. Greg had no need of him. Mrs. Hudson could get a new tenant. Molly would find someone else to care about. Anderson and Billy wouldn’t look up to him anymore. Mary and Rosie would have no reason to see him — Mary, he imagined, would be glad to be rid of him given his feelings for her husband. And John — John wouldn’t have to be uncomfortable around him anymore. Now that he was alone — now that he knew none of them wanted him anymore — he had nothing left. The people he had fooled himself into believing truly cared about him didn’t anymore. The people he had sacrificed everything for had thrown him away. The children he’d gone to school with had been right after all. He was a freak. He was worthless. He wasn’t worth loving. He deserved to be thrown away like a used tissue. 

Soon, an orderly came and brought dinner. He asked Sherlock to roll back onto his back so he could eat. Sherlock ignored him. The man turned him over himself. He held out the small cup of his medication and told him to take them. He held them up to Sherlock’s mouth, but Sherlock refused to open. He stared absolutely blankly at the wall, lost in misery.

“Come on, Mr. Holmes. Enough of this. It’s time for your meds and dinner. I heard about your little freak out. You need to eat or you don’t get to go home. Remember?”

Sherlock felt a stab of pain go through him again. The orderly tried to get him to take his meds again and again, then swore and left the room.

He returned with Dr. Fraser. “You’re calmed down. That’s good. Now Sherlock, you’ve got to eat. And you need your meds. Your brother and I have discussed your treatment. It’ll be okay. I promise.” She smiled at him, though the smile seemed strained and insincere. 

Sherlock curled back on his side and stared at the wall.

“Sherlock, you need to stop this. You need to eat and take you meds. You only have a few weeks left, and you’ll be able to go home. Isn’t that what you want? If you have a setback, it may mean more time here. I know you don’t want to be here more than you have to be.” She sat down in front of him and talked to him for half an hour. Sherlock knew she was lying. He tuned her out completely.

He laid there when she eventually left. Mycroft returned and tried to talk to him, but Sherlock ignored his attempts to reassure him.

Sherlock looked at him for a second or two and whispered, “So you’ve found a way to get rid of me forever. Go back to work, Mycroft. You don’t have to worry about your drug addict brother anymore.” He turned his eyes back to the wall.

Mycroft reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Little Brother. I just want you to get better.”

Mycroft talked and talked but Sherlock ignored his lies. Finally, he got up and said he’d be back in the morning.

Sherlock lay for hours, not moving, hardly blinking. He willed his mind to go blank. 

He heard the door open.

“Sherlock?” A hand reached out to cup his face as John sat in the chair in front of him. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? Mycroft called me. He said you’d had a setback today. He said you think that you’re never going home. Please don’t give up. Please. You’re going home. I promise, and we’ll all be there for you. All of us.” He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s short hair. “Don’t worry. It’s only a few more weeks.”

Sherlock wanted to believe John, he so wanted to. He was powerless to stop the tears leaking from his eyes. He shook his head slightly and looked at John. “No. It was supposed to be just another week. Now it’s a few weeks. Then it will be a few weeks more. My won’t let me leave. He wants to get rid of me. All of you want to throw me away so you don’t have to see me anymore,” he whispered in a voice so broken and defeated that it made John’s heart ache. “I wish you’d let me die. I wish they had killed me. This is worse than what they did to me. Knowing that no one wants me around. It’s so much worse.” He closed his eyes and breathed in a shaky breath. “Go home, John. I’m sorry that Mycroft wasted your time for this fiction of his. Go home to the ones you love and forget I’m alive. Remember how I used to be, not how I am now. I’m imprisoned here until the day I draw my last breath. Live your life with Mary and Rosie. Be happy, John.” Sherlock moved then, pulling his hand and John’s up to his mouth. He gently kissed the back of John’s hand and laid his cheek on it for a moment before he let go. He looked at John once more, a long look that John realized, with a sort of sickening dread, was Sherlock trying to memorize his face because he was sure he’d never see him again.

“Sherlock, please,” John said, his voice thick. “We don’t want you locked up in here. No one does. Not me. Not Mycroft. None of your friends or family. We want you to come home. We want you to be with us. You can’t think that. Dr. Fraser shouldn’t have sprung that on you. She should have discussed it with you. Believe me, I’ll be having a long discussion with her. You don’t treat a patient that way. And Mycroft too. I understand why you feel like you’re being imprisoned. I do. You’ve come so far. Don’t let Dr. Fraser and your brother ruin all of that. Please. We all need you. I need you. I can’t live my life without you in it. It almost killed me when I thought you were dead before. Please don’t give up. Please.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “You’ll fight for me?” he asked. He looked incredibly vulnerable and young.

“Of course I’ll fight for you. You deserve to go home.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, John. I couldn’t bear it.”

“I do mean it,” John said. “I’ll always be here for you. Always. I know you’re upset. But if you backtrack, Fraser will make you stay. Talk to her. Eat what they give you. Cooperate. I’ll be here to vent to. Your mind is your own. Your feelings are your own. You’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Really?”

John smiled and nodded. 

“Can . . . can I have a drink?”

John got him a drink and helped him to sit up and drink it. 

“I’m so tired, John. I need to sleep. But everything hurts.”

“I’ll get your meds.”

“Don’t let them in, John. I don’t want to see them, please.”

“I won’t.”

John covered Sherlock up and went to the nurses’ station and requested Sherlock’s medication. The nurse wanted to come in but John told her Sherlock was too upset to see her. He promised he’d make sure he was okay.

He gave Sherlock his meds, not liking Sherlock’s paleness and the look of pain on his face. Sherlock’s eyes were heavy.

“John,” he said, quietly. “Could you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“You remember the day you woke me up when I was so sick here?”

“Yes.”

“Could . . . could you hold me like that until I fall asleep? I feel like I’m at home every time you hold me.”

“Of course, I will.” John moved Sherlock over and climbed into bed with him, holding him close to his chest. 

Sherlock snuggled into John, breathing him in. 

“Go to sleep, Sherlock. I’m here for you,” John said, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. “I love you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes, surrounded with the smell of John he did feel at home. Exhausted both emotionally and physically by the day, he was soon asleep.

When Sherlock woke in the morning, he was surprised to find John was still there, though he was still asleep. John was breathing deeply beneath Sherlock’s head. There was something immediately safe and comforting about being able to hear John’s strong heartbeat, something that made Sherlock feel safe. 

How could he have doubted John? How had he allowed his mind to do that to him? Dr. Fraser had told him that depression was something that lied to you. He lay there, snuggling against the man he loved, wanting to cement this feeling in his mind so he could live off of it for the rest of his life. He could feel John starting to stir and wished with all of his heart that he could stop it.

“Sherlock?” he heard. “You awake?”

“Mmmm,” he mumbled.

“How you feeling this morning?”

“Better. I’m sorry I lost it so badly yesterday. I’m sorry I said those things to you. I just . . . my mind was telling me that everyone was abandoning me. That you’d be happier because you couldn’t have to face being uncomfortable around me.”

“I understand, Sherlock. I know depression and low self-esteem can really play havoc with anyone. Depression lies to you. And you’d been blindsided by your doctor. I don’t blame you for being upset.”

Sherlock looked up at John. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you care.”

“Of course I do. I’ll always care.”

“I don’t deserve your help,” Sherlock said, burying his face in John’s jumper.

“Of course you do. You need to get better and get out of here. You need to start your life again.”

Sherlock smiled. 

An orderly came into the room. He crooked an eyebrow at John’s presence in Sherlock’s bed. “Time for your bath and shave, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock nodded. John gently pulled himself from beneath Sherlock and got up. The orderly went to draw the bath.

“I think I’ll go get a cuppa. I’ll be back by the time you’re done,” John said.

Sherlock nodded.

When John returned, after a stop at the loo and a quick call to Mary before he’d gone to the cafeteria, Sherlock was back in bed in clean pyjamas and was just taking his medication. The orderly had his breakfast ready as well.

“I’ll feed him,” John said. The orderly nodded and left.

John and Sherlock talked about what they would do when Sherlock got home. Sherlock wanted to read some of his books, listen to his music.

John promised they’d have a movie night and a night a week when he, Mary, and Rosie would come for dinner. He promised to visit as often as possible.

“Please don’t think you have to visit every day. I know you have a job and a family. You have other friends. You have a life. I’m just a small part of it. I don’t want you sacrificing so much for me.”

“I want to spend time with you.”

“Maybe just ring me some days for a few minutes. I don’t want you to feel obligated to be with me.”

“It’s not an obligation. It’s not a sacrifice. It’s what I want.”

Sherlock looked sceptical. “We’ll work it out, I guess.”

John smiled as Sherlock finished the last bite of his breakfast.

Dr. Fraser came through the door a few minutes later. John and Sherlock both looked up at her. John’s hand snaked out and squeezed Sherlock’s.

“So, Sherlock. You’re looking better this morning.”

Sherlock looked down at his empty plate. “Yes, Doctor,” he said quietly. 

“Good. We still have a lot of work to do if you want to leave in a few weeks.”

Sherlock’s whole body clenched. “If?” he whispered. John could see Sherlock beginning to panic. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock looked into John’s eyes and slowly calmed down.

“Dr. Fraser. As a fellow doctor, I really do have a problem with the way you informed Sherlock of this extension of his stay here. You could have discussed it with him, but you didn’t. You just told him. Sherlock is afraid. He’s deathly afraid he’s being abandoned. You know his self-esteem issues. You must have known how he would have reacted. You unnecessarily traumatized him and may have set his recovery back.”

Fraser looked angry. “I won’t be lectured to, Dr. Watson. Sherlock’s treatment is under my purview. I will release him when he’s ready. His overreaction to the news of the continuation of his stay here only proves that he’s not ready to go. You don’t have any say in his treatment, Dr. Watson. His brother has approved his treatment. And he’s agreed with me. Sherlock’s depression is acute and needs to be carefully managed. The unfortunate incident that has left him with brain damage as well as irreparable damage to his body has pushed the already-present depression into dangerous levels. He hasn’t completely accepted his limitations. Until he does, he will always be in danger of a relapse and possible suicidal tendencies, despite what he promised you. The fact that his whole self-image is tied to you and his feelings for you is also not healthy. In fact, I would recommend that Sherlock not see you so much. In my opinion, you’ll inevitably end up hurting him. I would suggest that the sooner your presence is minimized in his life, the better.”

Sherlock was breathing heavily as he looked at John, tears brimming in his eyes. “John?” he sobbed. “Please don’t leave me.”

The agony is Sherlock’s voice broke something in John and made him incredibly angry. 

“Never, Sherlock. I will never, ever leave you. I swear on my life that I won’t leave you. Calm down.” John sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock.

Sherlock pushed himself up and wrapped himself around John. John hugged him, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Shhhhh. It’s alright. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I won’t leave you.” He could feel Sherlock trembling and trying to bring himself under control.

“You see what your presence does to him? So long as he is emotionally fixated on you and believes that he loves you, he’ll be vulnerable and dependent on you, possibly for the rest of his life.”

“Sherlock says he’s in love with me. I believe him. And I’m alright with that,” John said as he held his trembling friend. “I know it hurts him that I don’t love him that way and I feel so bad about that but we’re working on it. He said that as long as I’m in his life, that was enough. And it seems to me that you’re the one who’s upsetting him.”

“Sherlock, I’ll return later when your friend is gone. Please calm down.”

It took quite awhile for John to calm him down. He sent a text to Mycroft telling, not asking, him to come to the hospital as soon as possible.

When Mycroft walked in, Sherlock was lying down, holding John’s hand and staring at him as if he was afraid to close his eyes lest John would disappear.

“Sherlock, I take it you’re better,” Mycroft said.

“Mycroft, we need to talk,” John said.

“What’s wrong?”

“It took a long time to calm Sherlock down last night, and Dr. Fraser has just upset him again.” John outlined what Fraser had said. When he got to the part about her suggesting John get out of Sherlock’s life, Sherlock moaned and clenched John’s hand.

John turned to Sherlock and touched his face. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Mycroft looked at his brother, his face conflicted. “She wants you to leave? And she threatened to not let him go. Fraser has done a lot of good for him, but this is going too far.”

“It was completely unprofessional of her to tell me all of that, especially with Sherlock right here.”

“She . . . she told me before that she was happy I had John in my life. I . . . I don’t understand. Now she wants him . . . g . . . gone,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded curtly and left the room.

“See,” John said. “Mycroft’s gonna take care of all of it. Wouldn’t surprise me to see a new doctor assigned to your case.”

“He agreed with her yesterday.”

“Don’t worry. I’m never leaving, and you’re going home soon.” John sat quietly talking to Sherlock and keeping him calm.

Half an hour later, Mycroft came back in the room. “Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ve had a talk with Dr. Fraser and her supervisor, and she’s no longer your doctor. You’ll have a new doctor, the best I can find, by the end of the day. I’ve had your records seized and will have the best people looking at them. You’ll be home soon, and no one will take John away from you, I promise.” Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Brother Mine. I should have listened to you yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Sorry? You’ve never told me you were sorry . . . ever.”

Mycroft smiled. “I am this time.”

 

Later, in the afternoon, Sherlock’s new doctor came in. Dr. Oliver Cooper was middle aged and was reading Sherlock’s file as he walked in the room.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock looked up at him.

“I’m Dr. Cooper. I’ve been reviewing your file.”

“This is my brother, Mycroft, and my best friend, Dr. John Watson.”

Dr. Cooper shook each of their hands. “You’ve made a lot of progress since you were admitted. I see that Dr. Fraser has started you on another anti-depressant. She was right that it will take several weeks to see if it works, but you’ve been making real progress. I don’t agree with her conclusion about you and Dr. Watson. You still have few kilograms of weight to put on. But I think we can start having sessions every day, and by the end of next week, I think it will be fine for you to go home.”

Sherlock smiled widely. “I can go home?”

“Yes. I see no reason for you not to be able to. Your brother has asked, and I have agreed, to come visit you every day for awhile and then we’ll adjust the schedule as needed. You’ll continue to get physical therapy for your hands. And you’re to have a full-time caregiver with medical training during the day and at night. Does that sound acceptable?”

“Anything to get me home. Anything.”

Dr. Cooper smiled. “Great. If your brother and your friend would like to take a break, we can start on our first session now. I’ll want to do at least three a day until you go home.”

That night, Sherlock got his first good night’s sleep in the weeks since he’d been checked in. 

Sherlock grew to like Dr. Cooper. He listened, and he sympathized. He helped Sherlock see that, though he wasn’t the same anymore, he was still alive. That he wasn’t alone. And that the nightmares and flashbacks were controllable. He taught him new ways to deal with both. He listened to music during the day and at night. It calmed him greatly. He also taught him how to meditate. His methods seemed to be so much better than Dr. Fraser’s.

The week went by quickly. On his last day, Sherlock felt almost happy, relaxed, content. The next morning dawned bright and sunny. Sherlock woke early and happily ate his breakfast before his bath. He dressed in real clothes for the first time in a long time. Mycroft and John came by to pick him up. 

He was wheeled downstairs. Dr. Cooper met Sherlock in the lobby, telling him he’d see him the next day.

Outside was a van big enough for his wheelchair. 

“This van will be at your disposal any time you want to go somewhere. I’ve had it custom made,” Mycroft said.

“Thank you, My,” Sherlock said.

When they got on the road, Sherlock didn’t even look back. They turned onto Baker Street after twenty-five minutes later, and he could feel his excitement growing. He had had so many doubts that he’d ever return to 221B. And when the door came in sight, he broke into a huge smile.

He reached out and touched John’s shoulder. “I’m home, John. I’m home.”

John turned and looked at him, a huge smile on his face as well. “I told you, Sherlock. I told you you’d get home.” John patted Sherlock’s hand.

As Mycroft and John helped Sherlock out, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stood there with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

“Oh, my boy, my boy,” she said, hurrying over to Sherlock. “I’ve missed you so much.” She bent down and hugged him, kissing his forehead.

“I missed you too. Thank you for sending in the treats at the hospital.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, dear. I’ve got loads more all ready for you.” She hurried to the door. John pushed Sherlock up the wheelchair ramp and into the hallway. There was a lift where the stairs had been.

“I’ll let you get a bit settled and will come up and make everyone a nice cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.

They stopped on the second floor and got out, moving into the sitting room.

John was stunned. The room was so different. The skull poster was gone. The wallpaper was the same but the happy face and the bullet holes were gone. All of Sherlock’s files were gone. Most of his books were gone too, just a few lined the shelves. There were new, comfortable chairs. The kitchen table was new with two chairs surrounding it. And what almost made John’s heart clench, Sherlock’s violin and music stand were gone.

“What happened? Where is everything?”

“I had Mycroft get rid of it. I don’t need the files. He’ll sort through them and keep what needs to be kept. Some of it needs to go back to Greg. He’ll throw out the rest. Most of my books were references for cases. I donated them to the local library. I kept some fiction. I got a new telly and blu-ray for movies. I got a decent table and all my experiment equipment has been donated to a school.”

“And your violin?”

“I don’t know.” He looked up at Mycroft.

“It’s in a safety-deposit box at the bank,” Mycroft said.

“Sherlock, you really didn’t need to get rid of all of your possessions,” John said, worry on his face.

“There’s no point keeping things that just hurt to look at, John. That just remind me of what I’ll never be, what I can’t ever do again. I just have the rest of my life to stay here and hope my friends will visit. Maybe read, watch telly. I’ll be comfortable here. It’s the best I can hope for.”

“You’ll be able to go places, do things.”

“I’m not ready for that yet. Maybe someday. Mycroft said he’d arrange for anything I need to be brought. He’s invested my trust fund very well, so I’ll be okay. Mycroft’s arranged for two caregivers to here at all times. I’ll be taken care of by a trained nurse, my psychiatrist, and my physiotherapist.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Your caregiver will be arriving soon. The daytime caregiver will work from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. and the night time one’s from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. They’re here to see to your personal needs, cook for you, and so on. They’ll be a maid service in three times a week to clean, change the linens, do the wash. There’ll be someone to do the shopping, pick up medications, and so on. Just keep a list. If you want to go somewhere, just let us know and we’ll make the van available to take you anywhere you wish to go.”

Mrs. Hudson came up the lift, carrying a tray of sweets. She set them down in the middle of the table as she went to make tea. John wheeled Sherlock to the table. 

Mycroft gestured to John to follow him back into the sitting room as Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock chatted.

“John, there’s something you should know,” Mycroft whispered.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’ve been checking into Dr. Fraser since the incident last week. I’ve found some disturbing information. She was paid 25,000 pounds after Sherlock woke up at the hospital. We tracked the payment to a private Swiss account. There was another 25,000 pounds transfer made right before I dismissed her, but it was cancelled the day after.”

“Someone was paying her off? It’s too coincidental that the payments came at that time.”

“The universe is rarely . . .”

“So lazy. Yes, Sherlock told me you’ve told him that before. And I agree. Someone wanted him not to get better.”

“I think so as well. He seems to be doing much better with Dr. Cooper.” 

“Bring in Fraser to question her?”

“Definitely. But who would want to sabotage Sherlock’s recovery?”

“The men who kidnapped him? Maybe someone wanted him to never leave the hospital? It would make sense, given that Dr. Fraser suddenly changed her mind about letting Sherlock go.”

“You’re thinking there’s someone behind all of this?”

“I don’t know, but it would make sense.”

“We can’t let Sherlock know our suspicions.”

“It does make sense in a way. How could all five of them not be found by your men unless someone was protecting them?”

“It does. I’m going to have multiple people watching the flat from now on.”

“Tea,” Mrs. Hudson called. Mycroft and John returned to the table. Mycroft stood as the rest sat at the table and talked. 

When the caregiver arrived, he was introduced by Mycroft. Sam Turner was young, tall, and blond. 

Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and John left right before dinner. Sam cooked Sherlock a lovely dinner and settled Sherlock on the sofa to watch a movie while he did the dishes.

Sam’s replacement came promptly at 7. Brad Hunter was around 30, brunette, and tall. It was barely 8:30 when the second movie ended but Sherlock was exhausted. 

He looked around the flat. It was so nice to be home. He hadn’t told Dr. Cooper that he didn’t plan on leaving 221B again. Dr. Fraser’s reaction to it had been negative enough. These few rooms would be his whole life now. Maybe . . . maybe he’d go to Mycroft’s. No one would see him there.

Brad walked over to him. “Do you want me to get you ready for bed, sir?”

“Please. And please call me Sherlock.”

After the loo, and getting Sherlock into his own pyjamas for the first time in ages, Brad brought him his medication. 

“Could you turn on the night light? Sorry, I’ve developed a fear of the dark.”

“I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me. I have an intercom there. Just call out for me, and I’ll be right in.”

“Good night, Brad.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Oh, before you go, can you turn on my music?”

“Sure.” He turned on Sherlock’s laptop to an all-classical online station that it was set to.

In the morning, Sherlock woke up shortly after 8. Sam came in the room. “How did you sleep, sir?”

“Surprisingly fine. I guess the music helped, just like in the hospital. It’s so quiet here. I got used to all of the noise at the hospital.”

Sam helped him to the loo and into the bath. Sam dressed him and made him breakfast, bringing him his medication.

“Woo-hoo!” they heard as the lift stopped on their floor.

“Morning, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called. 

“Morning. Brought you tea.”

Sam fed Sherlock as the three chatted for awhile until Mrs. Hudson noted the time. “Oh, dear, one of my programs is on. I’ll just pop down to watch. I’ll bring up some more tea at lunch.”

“Stay here, Mrs. Hudson. My telly works fine.”

Sam lifted Sherlock onto the sofa, while Mrs. Hudson sat down beside him. They watched a home decorating show that Sherlock was sure his old self would find mind-numbingly boring. And, truth be told, he was finding it quite boring, but Mrs. Hudson was enjoying it. 

He wished again that he’d kept a few things, especially his violin, though he knew looking at it would break his heart. How many days and nights he’d played his violin, one of the only things that could calm his mind. He looked down at the shattered remains of his hands. The tips of his fingers weren’t the same as they’d been. They were soft now, the calluses from playing the violin weren’t there. His last physical reminders of the music were gone. 

He felt tears welling in his eyes. Just something else to show that his life would never be the same.

He tried to wipe his eyes without anyone seeing, but he felt Mrs. Hudson’s hand on his arm. He turned back to her. And she gasped at the tears in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“It’s nothing. It’s just something silly.” He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It can’t be something silly if you’re crying.”

“I was just wishing I hadn’t gotten Mycroft to take my violin, but then I thought it would just make me sad. Then I looked at my fingers, or what’s left of them. The calluses are gone. It’s like I never played at all. All the evidence is gone.”

“There’s your compositions. I’m sure Mycroft has them. He told me he was going to have them all bound. Like that beautiful song you composed for John and Mary’s wedding.”

Sherlock looked absolutely stricken. His face turned a sickening shade of grey.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong, dear?” Mrs. Hudson grasped his arm.

“That music. I wrote it in my head when I was being tortured in Serbia. I . . . I wanted to come home and tell John that I . . . I loved him. And that song . . . I was going to play it for him the first night we were together. It was called “A Waltz for John.” Do you have any idea how badly it hurt to watch John and Mary dance to the love song I wrote for John? Playing it was my only way of telling him.

“When I came back from Serbia, I hardly waited for them to patch up my injuries. I had to go see John. And, when I found him . . . he was angry. He hit me hard enough to break my nose, and he tore open the stitches on my back. I came back here and cried. I wished that I’d died in Serbia. I was so sure he’d never forgive me. And when he did, I wanted to make sure he was happy. I even agreed to be his best man. To stand beside him and watch him marry someone else. And then I deduced Mary was pregnant, and I knew that any last chance I had of being with John was gone. They were scared about becoming parents, and I told them not to worry, they were already great parents. They’d certainly looked after me. And I told them they’d hardly need me around anymore if they had a baby. I remember when I said that, this overwhelming sense of sadness came over me. They went off to dance, and I felt so alone, so utterly alone. I left the wedding then. It hurt too much to be there. I threw myself into cases and waited and waited but John never called or came to see me. I thought I’d lost him forever, that he really didn’t want me in his life anymore.

“I told John that I started using drugs again for a case, but that was only part of it. I missed him so much, I thought that I’d lost everything.”

“But he’s still your friend,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“That’s the most I can ever hope for,” Sherlock said quietly. “I suppose this is as close to a relationship I’ll ever have. And it will have to do.”

“You don’t know the future. There could be another young man that catches your eye.”

Sherlock looked up at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one wanted me before. There’s no way anyone would ever want me now, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the sentiment, but I have to face reality.”

“It doesn’t hurt to hope, to wish for things to be better.”

“I don’t have any hope or wishes or dreams. It hurts too much.”

Tears filled Mrs. Hudson’s eyes as she pulled Sherlock into her arms. “Don’t give up, my boy,” she whispered. “Don’t ever give up. You’re so loved.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

That afternoon, Sherlock brought it up with Dr. Cooper. “I just don’t know how to feel. I love John more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But I know that he doesn’t love me and never will. I’ve told him that I will settle for him being my friend, that I need him in my life in any way he’s comfortable. It just hurts that he’s not here. I know that he’d be here to take care of me if he wasn’t with Mary. But I want him to be happy. He loves Mary and Rosie. I can’t ask him for more time. I want desperately to be with him, but I can’t ever see a future where he would want that. I have nothing to offer him. Maybe if I was strong enough, I could let him go. But I just can’t.”

“And he’s the only person you’ve ever loved.”

Sherlock nodded.

“It does sound like you’ve given up a lot for him. From what I understand, you’ve done everything you could to protect him, to make him happy. Isn’t it about time you did something to make yourself happy?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sherlock, I know it’s hard, but you’ve said yourself that your relationship with John is causing you pain.”

“It doesn’t matter. John is the most important person in my life. He said he’d come and see me and talk on the mobile. I’m just scared that I can’t give him what he needs, and he’ll get tired of me. John’s an adrenaline junkie. When we were on cases, he loved running after criminals. But I can’t give him the excitement or the danger anymore.”

“Have you talked to him about that?”

“Sort of. He’d just deny it and say we were friends, that that was all he needed.”

“Sherlock, I think you need to tell John about your fears that he’ll leave you. I understand wanting to still have at least a friendship, but it’s obvious that his not being with you is really hurting you.”

“He visits.”

“But it’s not enough, is it?”

“No. But it’s all I have. It’s all I’ll ever have. John is the only one I could ever trust my heart with.”

“Even though he’s broken it?”

“Even then. I know that he has a kind and gentle heart. He’s a wonderful man. I know it was foolish of me to fall in love with him. I don’t deserve him, even if I was still whole.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s better than me. He understands people. I never did. He’s better at life than I am. I’m just selfish and proud and useless. I feel like I’m a better person when he’s around. Like I’m the best Sherlock I can be.”

“I really think you have to talk to him.”

“I don’t want him to feel obligated to come and see me. It should only be if he truly wants to. If he gets bored of visiting me, if he wants to go back to his family, then I’ll have to live with just his memory. When I still had my mind palace . . .”

“Mind palace?”

“I had a way of remembering things by building a mind palace and storing things there. I had a whole wing that was just John. The colour of his eyes in different lights and when he was in different moods. The way his hair shone in the sunlight. His collection of jumpers and how they looked and felt. How he smelled coming out of the shower. The sounds he’d make when he brought a girl home and they had sex in his room. The taste of his tea. His smile. I can remember some but not all of it. It’s what kept me alive in Serbia when I was being tortured. When they were hitting me and keeping me awake for days, I’d retreat into my mind palace and find John there waiting for me. The hope that I’d see him again was all that kept me alive.”

“But he wasn’t happy to see you when you returned.”

“He thought I was laughing at him. He thought I’d just left him behind. He was angry.”

“He hit you several times, you said.”

“It’s alright. I deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve that, Sherlock. You’d only gone away to keep him safe. Does he even know how badly you were tortured?”

“No. The evidence is gone now, covered over with new scars.”

“Why have you never told him?”

“I don’t want him to feel bad about it.”

“You’d rather suffer in silence then make him feel guilty for thinking the worst of you?”

“Aren’t you supposed to sacrifice for the ones you love?”

“Not to this extent, Sherlock. Don’t you want anything in return?”

“From John? No. I know he can’t love me. Even if he was gay or bisexual, he couldn’t love me. I’m not good enough for him. I’m all ugly and scarred. And I don’t know if I could ever even have sex . . . even with him. John likes sex a lot.”

“If he loved you, it wouldn’t matter.”

“I want the best for him. And I’m not the best of anything.”

“You do have rather serious self-esteem issues. You are aware of that.”

“I’ve been told all my life that I’m worthless and useless. That I’m stupid and a freak. That I don’t deserve to be happy or loved. So I know that I can’t be. This is all I have. People who say they’re my friends, my brother, my parents. I’m so lucky to have them. I can’t do anything to risk them leaving. If they want to see me happy, I’ll pretend to be. I can’t lose them.”

“Sherlock, you’re none of those things. These people are your friends because they care about you.”

“They’re friends because I helped them or because they needed me. I have to be so careful not to make them angry or hurt their feelings. Though I suppose I could survive here all alone with just my caregivers. I’ve lived alone before. I expect it, actually. Someday I’ll end up back in your hospital alone.”

“You don’t have any hopes or dreams about your future?”

“No. There isn’t any point. Wishes are for children. My life isn’t going to get any better, Doctor. There’ll be pain until the day I die. But I promised John that I wouldn’t try to kill myself again, and I won’t.”

“Even if he leaves?”

“Even then. I promised him.”

“Would you mind if I asked John to join us for your next session? I really think he needs to hear this.”

“If you like. He’s heard it before.”

Dr. Cooper looked concerned when he left. Sherlock hadn’t really been sure why. He knew he was being realistic. He didn’t quite understand why his doctor couldn’t see that. 

Feeling tired and a bit unsure, Sherlock was glad when Mrs. Hudson showed up with tea and biscuits. He was a bit embarrassed when she insisted on feeding him, but at the same time, it felt alright. He couldn’t imagine his own mother doing this. His father, maybe, but not his mother. 

“Did you have a good talk with your doctor?”

“I suppose,” he said, sipping at his tea. “I have to talk to him or it’s back inside with me.”

“I’m sure he just wants to help.”

“I suppose. Seemed terribly concerned with my relationship with John for some reason.”

“You said yourself that you were worried.”

“He wants John to come to the session tomorrow.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing. It would certainly help both of you, I think. Lay it all on the table.”

“I don’t know if I want to do that. I don’t want to push him. I can’t offer him much, and if I push too hard, he’ll realize I’m not worth it.”

“You certainly are. Please stop worrying about it.”

“Maybe, you’re right. If he leaves, there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I could beg.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Stop this. You will not beg John to come and see you. He would never do that to you. You’re too important to him.”

“Mary and Rosie are important to him now.”

“Yes. They are. But he has you too.”

“But I make him uncomfortable.”

“Why? Because you told him you love him?”

“He’s told me he feels guilty. Why should he put himself through that?”

“Because it’s you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m just a burden to him now.”

“You were never a burden to him.”

“Do you think you could make me that chicken stew you used to make? And maybe some of those cheese scones?”

“You’re changing the subject. But yes, I could make that for you. I’ll pop downstairs and get everything, shall I? I’ll bring it up here, and we can chat while I’m cooking.”

Sherlock smiled. He really did like her stew and scones. He’d have to steer her onto some other topic when she came back. His mobile rang a few minutes later. He fished it out of his pocket and hit the talk button after the third try.

“Hello?”

“Sherlock? Your psychiatrist called and wants me to come for your session tomorrow. Are you okay?”

Sherlock felt his stomach clench with worry. “I’m fine. You don’t have to bother coming if you don’t want to.”

“He said that there are things we need to get out in the open.”

“He’s just worried about nothing. I’m fine, John. I know you’ll want to spend time with Mary and Rosie on a Sunday. Please don’t ruin your day coming here.”

“We were going to come tonight anyway. Thought we’d bring you some dinner.”

“That’s okay. Mrs. Hudson is making her chicken stew and those cheese scones.”

“Oh, those are good. Maybe we’ll show up anyway,” he laughed.

“You’re certainly invited. Come if you’d like, but don’t feel obligated.” 

“Why would I feel obligated?”

“No reason. But I know you, John. You’re a worrier. I really am fine.”

“Would 6 be okay?”

“Whenever you’d like.”

“We’ll bring dessert. See you then.”

Mrs. Hudson came back up the lift.

“I hate to bother you but John, Mary, and Rosie are coming for dinner. Do you have enough?”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I don’t think I do. Do you think Sam would mind running to the shop to get the extra? I can stay with you. My hip’s bothering me a bit today.”

Sherlock asked Sam, who agreed. Mrs. Hudson made a list. Sherlock gave Sam his card and sent him out. 

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson talked about the weather, about Mrs. Hudson’s sister, and about Mrs. Turner. Sam returned, and she set to work making dinner. She sent Sam downstairs for some extra chairs for the table. 

By the time the Watsons came in, the flat smelled of stew and scones.

Rosie climbed up on Sherlock’s lap. “Hi, Uncle Sherlock. Are you feeling better?”

“A lot better,” he said as he kissed her cheek.

“Good.” She hugged him tight. “You were so sad when I saw you last.”

“I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “But I won’t be sad with you here. I want you to meet my caregiver, Sam Turner. Sam, this is Rosie Watson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ben said, smiling. 

Rosie smiled shyly as she cuddled into Sherlock’s chest. “It’s nice to meet you too. We brought dessert. I hope you like cheesecake.”

“It’s my favourite,” Sam said.

“Sam, this is John’s wife, Mary. Mary, this is Sam.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Mary said.

“You too,” Sam replied, shaking her hand.

“I’m glad to see you home,” Mary said as she kissed Sherlock’s cheek and squeezed his arm. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on but something about Mary seemed . . . off.

“How are you, Mary?”

“Fine. Watching this one. She’s a handful,” Mary said as she gently touched the top of Rosie’s head. “And keeping this one satisfied. He’s a handful too,” she said, leaning up to kiss John on the lips.

John looked embarrassed.

“We also brought a nice bottle of wine,” she said.

“I’m afraid I can’t have wine. Not with my medications. But that’s okay.”

“I never thought,” Mary said. “Ah well, you’ll have some wine, won’t you, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Sounds lovely, dear.”

John helped Mrs. Hudson set the table. They all gathered round and sat down.

As they ate, Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that he had somehow been shuffled to the side. Mary, John, and Mrs. Hudson talked and laughed. Rosie kept looking at Sherlock like she’d truly missed him.

“Mrs. Hudson, this stew is even better than I remembered,” Sherlock said.

“Thank you, dear. I’m glad you like it.”

“I like your scones. Mama doesn’t make them with cheese. But hers are good too,” Rosie said.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them.”

“I’ll have to get the recipe,” Mary said.

John ate his dinner, watching his wife and glancing at Sherlock.

Sherlock sensed something was wrong, but he wasn’t sure what.

After dinner, Sam offered to do the dishes before his replacement came. John and Mary took the chairs back down to Mrs. Hudson’s. They all took their coffee into the sitting room and talked for awhile before Mary excused herself to the loo. Rosie curled up on Sherlock’s knee.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock whispered.

“Mama and Papa had a fight before we came. Mama was mad about something.”

“It’s okay. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” He hugged her. He looked up at John, who was talking to Mrs. Hudson. Was he causing problems? Maybe Mary didn’t want to come. Maybe that was why she’d been making snarky comments and brought the wine she knew Sherlock couldn’t drink. What had he done to make her angry? Was it because John was spending too much time with him? Or was it because she knew he loved John?

Sherlock was quiet for the rest of the evening, as Rosie snuggled into him and fell asleep.

Mary kept looking at him. Occasionally, she would smile at him, though her eyes were cold, the smile never reaching her eyes. Sherlock shivered, panic seizing him. Mary was angry with him. And John would choose her over him every time. His eyes snapped to John. This could be the last time he ever saw him. The last time they were in the same room. He felt his breath start to come too fast. He struggled to control it as he felt the cold fingers of panic closing around him.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” he heard. It was Brad. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?”

He felt someone lift Rosie out of his arms. His breath was ragged, his chest tight. Someone knelt down in front of him and put a hand on his arm. He looked up into a pair of midnight-blue eyes, crinkled in worry. Oh, the thought of never seeing them again. His breath came faster.

“You need to calm down. You’re having a panic attack. You need to calm down, okay? Breathe with me. In — hold — out, like that.”

His eyes locked on John. He followed John’s instructions. His breath slowly came back to normal.

He felt John’s hand at his wrist. “Your heart’s pounding. How about we get you to bed, try to calm you down a bit.” Brad picked Sherlock up and carried him into the bedroom.

“Do you want your pyjamas?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. Brad quickly changed him. John came in, the medical kit from Brad’s supplies in his hand.

When Sherlock was in bed, John took his blood pressure. “A bit too high, but I think it’s from the panic attack.”

“Do you want a sedative?” Brad asked.

“Not yet.” He turned back to Sherlock. “Are you feeling better?”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.

“Hey now. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to Brad and back.

“Can you excuse us for a moment?” John asked.

“Sure.” Brad went out and shut the door.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, touching Sherlock’s face.

He took a deep, shaky breath and let it out. “Rosie said you and Mary had a fight before you came,” he whispered. “She’s been saying strange things, giving me dirty looks. She didn’t want to come did she?”

John sighed. “I’m sorry she upset you. She didn’t want to come. She . . .”

“She doesn’t want you coming to see me anymore, does she?”

John looked uncomfortable.

“She’s angry because I’m in love with you. She’s jealous. She wants you to stay home with her. She thinks because I have medical help that there’s no reason at all that you should be here.” 

John’s eyes flicked away from Sherlock’s.

“You told her okay, didn’t you? You told her you wouldn’t come by and see me anymore.”

“No. No. I didn’t tell her that, Sherlock.”

“But you’re going to; aren’t you? Your wife and child are more important to you than I’ll ever be. I don’t blame her for being angry. Spending more time with me takes you away. She’s going to make you choose, isn’t she?”

John touched Sherlock’s face again. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t know what to say.”

“Go home with your wife and daughter. Build a life. Move past this. Your life is your own. Forget about me. If you want to know how I am, I can have Mycroft send you an update every once and awhile.”

“I can’t do that to you. You’ve lost so much. I can’t lose you, Sherlock.”

“You already lost me. I’m not your Sherlock. I’m just a broken shell. Remember me the way I was. Go home, John.”

“But you said you needed me in your life.”

“I do. But I want you to be happy. My happiness doesn’t matter to me. Only yours. If that means I never see you again, then so be it. And don’t worry. I promised you I wouldn’t try to kill myself and I won’t.”

“I don’t know what to say,” John said, his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t leave you.”

“Yes. You can.”

“Everything okay in here?” Mary was at the door. “What’s wrong, John?”

“You’ve won, Mary,” Sherlock said. “I know you don’t want John to see me. I’ve told him to go home and not come back. You don’t have to be angry anymore.”

“Sherlock . . .” she started. “I . . .”

“Can I say goodbye to Rosie?” Sherlock asked.

“She’s asleep,” Mary said.

Sherlock nodded. “Would it be okay for me to send her presents on her birthday and at Christmas?”

“That would probably confuse her,” Mary said, her face hard.

“For God’s sake, Mary . . .” John said, as he wiped his eyes.

“John, say goodbye to Sherlock. I’ll get Rosie ready.” Mary shut the door.

Sherlock managed to smile. “I guess you need to go. I wish I’d known we weren’t going to see each other again. I’d have thought of something better to say.”

“Sherlock, you’re always going to be my best friend. I love you.”

Sherlock struggled to sit up. John took him into his arms and held him close. “I love you, John. I always will. Please tell Rosie goodbye for me.”

“I will. I promise. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. Goodbye John.”

John laid Sherlock gently back on the bed. He touched Sherlock’s face, wiping away the tears. He bent over and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. “Goodbye Sherlock.”

When John shut the door, Sherlock felt like his heart completely shattered.

Brad popped his head back in. “Feeling better?”

“Can I have my pills?”

As soon as Brad brought them, he asked him to turn out the lights.

His life felt . . . empty. Everything he had left felt like it was gone. He truly had nothing now.

He lay there, quietly sobbing, when he heard them saying their goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson. When the lift started, Sherlock had to bite his hand to keep himself from calling out to John.

He heard a soft knock at the door before Mrs. Hudson came into the room.

“Feeling better?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Fine. Headache,” Sherlock said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome, dear. Good night.”

When she closed the door, he wanted to ask her back. He wanted someone to hold him. He wanted to be drugged unconscious. Instead, he lay there, crying until he couldn’t anymore. It felt like part of him was missing. All his life, it had only been him. But after that day at Bart’s, it had changed. John had awoken something in him. Sherlock was the great mind, but John had become his heart. And now it was gone. Now he’d never see that smile, hear him laugh, see those eyes. And, though he’d promised John his life, he felt like part of him — the best part — had died when John had shut the bedroom door.

It was in the early hours of the morning before Sherlock, exhausted, had fallen asleep. And it was nearly noon before he woke. It was raining outside, matching his mood. He called for Sam and asked him to take him to the loo and bring him back to bed. He told Sam he still had a headache and wanted to rest for awhile more.

When Sam offered him some breakfast, he claimed he was nauseated and just took his pills with a glass of water.

He lay on his side watching the rain drip down the window. He lost all track of time as he tried his best to keep all thoughts out of his head. Eventually he went back to sleep. And in that sleep, his music wasn’t enough.

He was back in the warehouse hanging by his wrists from the ceiling. Pain was a constant. There was absolutely nothing that didn’t hurt. He was looking down at the floor, nothing the puddle of blood under him, feeling the blood dripping off the end of his toes. His back throbbed from a recent whipping.

He looked up as someone entered his line of sight.

“Well, well. We’ve left you alone too long now haven’t we, Sherly?”

He refused to look up.

“Get him down. I think he needs another lesson.”

He felt himself begin to lower. Panic flared in him. He knew what this meant.

They grabbed his arms as Sherlock howled. A bucket of cold water was dumped over him to wash the blood away before he was thrown onto the cot. His arms were chained to the cot legs, and he lay there, knowing what was coming.

“He does have a lovely arse,” one of them said. He could feel a hand caressing him as he heard the sounds of someone removing clothes.

“No,” he whispered. “Please don’t.”

“Listen to him, would ya?”

He felt a slap across his raw back. He couldn’t stop the scream.

“You do what we say you do,” someone hissed in his ear. “And right now I’m gonna fuck you.”

He felt the cot dip, and his legs being spread. He had no strength left to fight. He closed his eyes, trying to escape.

He screamed again as the man on top of him shoved his penis all the way in. His arse was already sore and torn from the other rapes, and he could feel himself splitting open again. The blood provided the only lubricant as he was violently taken. He tried not to whimper but couldn’t help it. Each time, it was worse. He could feel the blood seeping into the mattress under him.

He screamed again as the man sped up and collapsed onto Sherlock’s torn back when he came. He pulled himself out and climbed off the cot.

Sherlock felt someone else get on the cot. And screamed when they shoved into him.

He tried to concentrate on the door at the end of the warehouse. If there was only some way he could get there.

By the time the second man pulled out, Sherlock was nearly unconscious with pain. They unlocked his hands only long enough to turn him over before they locked them again to the cot legs.

The first one had gotten dressed and pulled a knife out of his pocket. He carved a long line in Sherlock’s chest and handed the knife to the other who carved another line.

Sherlock moaned in pain as they admired their handiwork.

“Just so you’ll always remember us and how good we were. How we took you over and over and made you ours. You are the greatest little whore. Your screams are so lovely.” He bent down and ran his fingers along Sherlock’s bruised cheekbone. “Ah. I have plans for this face.”

He turned to his companion. “I’m starved after all of this exercise. Let the others have their turn if they want. I’m exhausted.”

They laughed as they walked towards the door and turned out the lights, plunging Sherlock into darkness.

He hated this time of the day. Sometimes they would sneak in while he slept and torture or rape him. Every sound was a forerunner of pain and humiliation.

A light came on high above. Sherlock squinted.

He heard someone moving. He glanced over and then looked again. “John?” he whispered. “You came?”

John moved towards him and stopped a metre away.

“Let me loose, John. Please. They’ll be back. Hurry.”

John looked at Sherlock, his eyes running down Sherlock’s battered and scarred body. And then he looked into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Please, John. Please let me loose. Help me.”

“Why?”

Sherlock couldn’t comprehend the question.

“Why should I rescue you? Why should I let you go?”

“John, please. They’ll hurt me again. Please help me. I need you. I need to be with you. You’re my whole life. I . . . I love you.”

John’s face twisted. “Love me? You love me? And I suppose you want me to love you? Kiss you? Fuck you?”

“John . . .” he whispered. Disgust. It was disgust on John’s face.

“How could I love you? You want me to stick my cock in you? Let you suck my cock? How could I want that? You’re all scars and ugliness. Those men, they’ve fucked you and fucked you. You’re dirty and disgusting. And now you’re probably full of disease. You’d have me leave my wife and child to come live with some diseased, dirty freak?” He turned towards the door.

“John, don’t leave me! Please!”

From behind him, Sherlock could hear all five men returning.

“John! Please, I love you!”

The men laughed at him. “The little whore’s in love,” one of them said.

“Let’s give him the cock. It’s what he wants.” As they moved in on him, he screamed again and again as John got to the door and, without another look, slammed the door shut.

Sherlock woke screaming. “John! John! Don’t go! Don’t leave me! Don’t go!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's life has descended into chaos. New developments threaten to tear him apart. Can he take much more? Will his heart be broken for good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This rated mature for language and a brief sex scene.

Sam came running through the door. He sat down next to Sherlock. “Sherlock! It’s alright. Calm down. You’re safe.”

Sherlock looked wildly around him. He was in his room, not the warehouse. 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” he heard Sam say. 

Sherlock held his head in his hands. “He’s gone. Oh, he’s gone. And he’s not coming back.”

He felt Sam’s hand on his arm as he sobbed. He dimly heard the lift stop outside. Mrs. Hudson came bustling in the door. 

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sam got up and Mrs. Hudson sat down beside Sherlock, touching his shoulder. “I was back there. In the warehouse. John was there. I asked him to rescue me, but he asked me why. I told him I loved him, and he looked at me in disgust. He told me I was dirty and diseased and disgusting. And he walked away. He left me.”

He leaned into her as he felt her lift her arms around him. “He’d never leave you, Sherlock.”

“He left me last night. Mary’s mad. She made him choose. And he chose her. I can’t ask him to leave her for me. The dream was right. I am dirty and disgusting. He’s gone. He’s gone forever. I’ll never see him again. My heart feels like it’s dead. Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I wish I’d died. I promised John. I promised him, but I don’t want this. This is worse than what they did to me.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t give up. Please.”

“I can’t live without him. He’s my life. He’s my heart and my soul. I know I don’t deserve him, but I need him.”

“Do you want me to call your brother?”

“No. Please. I just want to be alone.” He pulled away from her and wiped at the tears. He slowly, painfully turned away and lay down.

“I don’t want you to be alone in your head, Sherlock. You need to be with someone. Let me stay with you.”

“Please. Please go.” He sobbed again. “Please.”

“Okay. But I’m coming back later to check on you. And I’ll bring you some food.”

Sherlock lay there in misery, every thought, every feeling screaming for John. When he closed his eyes, he could see the disgust in John’s eyes. He hugged himself, rocking back and forth.

John was right. He was disgusting. He wasn’t worth John’s presence. John would be happy with Mary and Rosie. Mary had already tried to take him out of John’s life permanently. When that bullet had entered his chest, he had known she’d meant to kill him. He had clawed his way back to life to save John. He’d murdered Magnusson to keep John and Mary safe. He wished he could have gone to Eastern Europe and died. He wished the overdose he’d taken on the plane had been enough to kill him. 

“John,” he whispered.

Time seemed to mean nothing.

Mrs. Hudson returned, and he knew she was there but couldn’t understand what she was saying.

When he looked up again, Mycroft was pulling up a chair and sitting down. Mycroft reached out his hand and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Brother.”

Sherlock glanced up at him. “He’s gone,” Sherlock whispered.

“Mrs. Hudson told me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s done. I have nothing left, My. Nothing at all. John’s gone forever. She’s won. She always wins.”

“Yes. Mrs. Watson. I believe I’ll have a talk with her.”

“No. John made his decision. I’m not worth it. He loves her, not me, never me.”

“Please, Sherlock. I’ve called Dr. Cooper. He’ll be here soon.”

“What does it matter? He can talk all he wants, but I’ve already going to be alone without him. My heart will always be broken.”

“Never alone. You have people who care.”

“No.” 

He heard someone come into the room.

“Ah, Dr. Cooper.” Mycroft stood up. “Please talk to him, Sherlock.”

Mycroft left and Dr. Cooper sat down. “I understand that you’re very upset, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tonelessly told him about the nightmare and John leaving. And about how alone he felt, how heartbroken, how worthless and disgusting.

“But you know you aren’t those things.”

“I am those things. John was right.”

“Only the John in your dream. And he’s only a manifestation of you. You think those things.”

“I can’t live like this. I can’t live with this pain. With knowing I’ll never see him again.”

“I know that you have abandonment issues, Sherlock . . .”

“They all leave. They all leave me. My and Redbeard and my parents and John. I’m not good enough. I’m never, ever good enough. Why? Why won’t anyone love me? What did I do?” he cried.

“You didn’t do anything. Nothing at all. You are good enough.”

Sherlock looked at him. “You can’t understand what it’s like to be despised for who you are. You don’t know I’ve tried so hard to be better, but I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure at life.”

“You aren’t a failure.”

“I know what I am. Stop telling me that I don’t. I’d rather go through the torture I went through in the warehouse for the rest of my life then live without him.”

“I know it hurts now, but it will get better. It’s just for now. He may change his mind.”

“Mary won’t. She’s angry because I love John.”

“He could come back.”

“Please do something. Please make it stop hurting so much.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take me back to the hospital. Please. Take me back and give me something so I can’t feel anymore, so I can’t think.” Sherlock knew he sounded desperate, and he could feel another panic attack coming. “Please. You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to help me.”

“Sherlock, I don’t think trying to make yourself catatonic with drugs is the best thing for you. I know you’re upset, hurt, sad, lonely. You feel rejected and betrayed. And being abandoned by someone you really, truly love is never easy. But it will hurt less as time goes by.”

“But I can’t . . . I can’t live like this. I can’t. Please help me. My!”

Mycroft came into the room. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock sat up and held his arms out to his brother. Mycroft sat down and took his trembling brother into his arms.

“What’s happened?”

“Make him help me, My. Please make him help me.”

“Of course he’ll help you.”

“Make him take me to the hospital. Make him drug me so I can’t feel or think, so it won’t hurt anymore. Help me. Help me, My.” Sherlock started to wail in pain.

Mycroft had never seen his brother so upset. He hugged him tighter.

“Make me forget him. Make it all go away. It hurts, My. It hurts so bad. So bad. It feels like I’m going to die. I need to go. Please let me go.”

“Calm down, Sherlock. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“I don’t care. Please help.” Sherlock could feel what little control he had slipping away. The panic was gripping him again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please forgive me. I’m sorry, John. Don’t leave me. Don’t go,” he started to whisper. He pulled away from Mycroft. He closed his eyes and tucked his chin into his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t go, John. Please don’t go. Please come back,” he whispered over and over.

He could hear voices talking loudly to him, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He felt hands on him, but couldn’t stop. He started hitting his head. “Stupid! Stupid! Shouldn’t have told him. Shouldn’t have said you loved him. That’s why he left. You’re just a used-up piece of trash. Why would he want their whore?” He hit himself harder and harder until he felt someone grab him and force his hand away from his head. He started hitting himself with his other hand, harder than before. He felt his fist connect with his nose and pain flared. His other hand was grabbed as well, and he could feel hands forcing him down onto the bed.

He screamed. They were back. They’d come back and were going to hurt him again.

“No! Please. Please don’t hurt me! Please! Please don’t touch me! You already hurt me! You already took everything away! Stop! Stop!”

He felt something jab him in the arm, and blackness surrounded him before it pulled him under. 

 

Mycroft Holmes had convinced himself, while still a child, that caring was not an advantage. It was a credo he’d lived by all of his life. In pursuit of power, he had scrupulously avoided any entanglements that might come back to visit him. No illicit affairs, no one-night stands.

He’d only allowed himself to fall in love once. The granddaughter of an Earl. He was just finishing his PhD, much earlier than his colleagues of course, when he met the 21-year-old Samantha Wallingford. Beautiful, fiercely intelligent, eminently practical — she had seen such potential in Mycroft Holmes. After a short courtship, they were engaged. On the night of the engagement party, they’d allowed themselves the luxury of a few drinks and had ended up consummating their relationship.

When she told him a few weeks later that she was pregnant, he was delighted. They moved the wedding up a few months so that she would only be four months along and not showing much. Right before the wedding, they had found out they were having a son.

Two days before the wedding, they were on their way to a pre-wedding dinner at the Earl’s when a drunk driver hit their car.

When Mycroft woke in the hospital two days later, he learned that his fiancée was dead. He’d felt something break inside himself. He hadn’t been able to get out of the hospital before the funeral.

He had wanted to have his son’s name on the headstone, but the Earl had said that it wouldn’t be proper to list their son’s name as they weren’t married.

So Mycroft had a stone made for his son and placed in the cemetery near his parents’ home. Though William Siger Mycroft Holmes had never drawn a breath, Mycroft was damned if he’d be forgotten. He had worn the wedding ring Samantha had bought for him ever since and had steadfastly stayed away from women ever since. He had shut off his heart and concentrated on his career.

But when Sherlock nearly died the first time from a drug overdose, he realized that his little brother needed him. He’d been irreparably damaged from the abuse he’d undergone in school, Mycroft’s abandonment, and his parents sending him away to a school where he had no friends and was bullied every day.

As Mycroft sat beside the deathly pale Sherlock in the hospital, counting each heartbeat and shallow breath, he swore he would never let Sherlock suffer. Not again. And he felt his heart loosen and begin beating again.

He knew Sherlock would never fully trust him again. And he didn’t blame him.

There’d been several more overdoses (one had nearly killed him — he’d coded on the table and only Mycroft’s threats to the doctors careers had made them continue) and several trips to rehab. Sherlock cursed him each time. He couldn’t seem to perceive the death wish he had. But Mycroft could.

Then Greg Lestrade had come into Sherlock’s life and pulled him into the world of detecting and away from drugs. Mycroft would be forever grateful to Greg for that and was planning to make sure of his future promotions. 

And then John. John who had brought Sherlock friendship and had opened his brother up to love. It was painfully obvious to Mycroft how his brother felt about John, and he hoped that John would love him. Sherlock had sacrificed everything for John — and John . . . left him. Abandoned him for someone else. Mycroft was sure Sherlock didn’t know that he’d had him followed the night he went to see John after Serbia, that men were stationed around 221B and cameras had been installed. He knew precisely how long Sherlock cried after he came home and how close he’d come to killing himself.

And John had gone on and on ever since about how much Sherlock had hurt him. Mycroft had kept an eye on John when Sherlock was away. He was depressed and almost suicidal. He’d had his men disable John’s gun for awhile.

But John’s inability to see past himself, to consider that Sherlock had suffered badly during his two years away, had angered Mycroft. He knew he dare not tell John, that Sherlock would never forgive him. And now the scars on his back were covered.

And Mary. John throwing Sherlock over for that “woman.” Mycroft didn’t trust her and never would. He knew who she was, what she was. And he knew she’d been the one to shoot Sherlock. To almost take his brother away from him.

And now. He’d be damned if he’d allow her to ruin Sherlock’s life. It had taken a lot to talk Dr. Cooper into not readmitting Sherlock into the hospital. They’d restrained him to the bed and heavily sedated him.

Sherlock had so little left, he wouldn’t lose this last and most important thing in his life.

 

His car pulled up outside the Watsons. Mycroft elegantly got out of the car, picked up his briefcase, and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, ramrod straight. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders before he walked to the door and knocked twice.

John opened the door, the smile disappearing off of his face.

“No, Mycroft,” John said. “You can’t come in. I don’t care what . . .” He stopped as he saw the thunderous look on Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft had stared down dictators and warlords. And he stared down John Hamish Watson. John moved out of his way, and Mycroft strode past him into the house. 

Mary was sitting on the sofa, watching television.

“Who was it, John?” she called without looking away from the screen.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said, staring down his nose at her.

Mary stood up, her face cloudy with anger. “Get out of my house,” she ordered.

“I believe your husband’s name is also on the deed to the house.” He looked at her like she was some new species of dung beetle. “I’ve come to speak to you and your husband.”

“If you don’t, I’ll call the police,” Mary threatened, her fists clenching.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Watson. I have files I’m sure they’ll want to see. Something about the assassination of a Romanian politician five years ago.”

Mary looked at him in shock. “I was given orders to do that.”

“‘I was only following orders.’ Yes, that defence worked so well at the Nuremburg trials. Did you think I didn’t know about you? Do you think I didn’t know you’re the one who shot my brother? You’re only alive because the poor, deluded fool behind me thinks he loves you.”

John swallowed audibly.

“Where is your daughter?”

“She’s at a birthday party. She won’t be home for hours,” John said.

“Excellent. Shall we go to the kitchen and sit down?”

He followed them into the kitchen and sat opposite them, setting his briefcase on the floor.

“What do you want?” John asked.

“I’ve just come from my little brother’s bedside. He’s currently strapped down and heavily sedated. He had a dream that you came to him after he’d been raped and tortured in the warehouse and wouldn’t help him get away. You kept asking why you should bother and he told you he loved you. You called him dirty and disgusting and walked away. He woke up screaming. Mrs. Hudson called me, and I called Dr. Cooper. Sherlock begged us to resection him. He wants Cooper to drug him until he can’t think or feel again. He begged him. He said you’d left and the pain was so much he couldn’t stand it anymore. My brother is broken. When the doctor tried to tell him the pain would fade and he called for me, Sherlock sobbed in my arms, begging me to get Dr. Cooper to help him. Then he started berating himself for telling you how he felt and starting hitting himself in the head. He broke down completely. We held him while we strapped him down. He started screaming, convinced we were the men in the warehouse. We had to sedate him. I had to threaten the doctor to keep him from committing Sherlock.”

Tears were streaking down John’s face, and he was biting the knuckles of his left hand. “Oh God. What have I done?”

“You’ve chosen your family over a broken man that you’ll never love,” Mary said, squeezing John’s arm. “I’ve given you Rosie and . . . I was going to wait until later to tell you but . . . I’m pregnant.”

“How . . . convenient,” Mycroft said, sceptically. 

“I am pregnant. We’ll have another child. You can’t afford to miss work anymore. I can’t work with two young children. And I’ll need help. You can’t leave us while you go sit at an invalid’s bedside and hold his hand. You can’t give him what he wants anyway. What are you supposed to do? Go over there and fuck him and then come home to me? He probably won’t even let you . . .”

“Enough!” Mycroft said, sharply. “It doesn’t matter if you’re pregnant or not. John, you will come back to my brother. You will see him. I don’t ask you to do anything else. Pretend you care about him, though it seems obvious that you don’t. I will not see my brother destroyed because of your selfishness. You will do this or your charming, murderous wife will have her picture sent to every law enforcement agency and to the head of every major criminal organization in the world.”

Even Mary looked shocked.

“Have your little family with her, but you will be Sherlock’s friend. He can’t deduce anymore. It won’t take much to fool him.”

“I am his friend, Mycroft. I’ll always be his friend.”

“Do you think he’d ever have abandoned you for any reason whatsoever? He died for you. He killed for you. He was going off to die in Eastern Europe to keep you and your little family safe.”

“He did abandon me. He left me alone for two years to swan around after Moriarty’s men.”

“Swan around?” Mycroft said angrily. “You really believe he was off having fun. He told you he did it to save your life. And still you play the martyr?” Mycroft had had enough. His brother would be angry but he could stand it no longer. He opened up his briefcase and threw a photograph at John.

It showed Sherlock, unconscious, on his stomach. His back was torn up, wounds littering the surface. Whip lashes, stab wounds, literal holes. 

“What . . . what is this?”

“He was captured four times and tortured. He escaped the first three. He was shot, stabbed. He nearly died of pneumonia in Siberia. When he was captured in Serbia, he tried to escape but they caught him. Only using a code name we’d come up with led me to him. I had to watch him being tortured before I could rescue him. He was so badly hurt. He would hardly let the doctors sew up his wounds. He was so excited, so impatient to see you.

“And when he did, you hit him again and again. You tore his back open again and broke his nose. He went to Molly Hooper to get her to sew him up and set his nose. He nearly killed himself that night because he was heartbroken.” He threw more pictures at John showing his poor, scarred back. Showing him crying miserably on his bed.

“This is what his swanning around did to him. He nearly died for you so many times and has never asked anything of you in return. He didn’t even ask you to love him.”

John couldn’t stop looking at the ruin of his friend’s back. “He never told me. He never said anything.”

“He thought you were angry with him. He didn’t want you to come back or stay with him because you felt guilty. And then you got married and never contacted him. He thought you’d given up on him. He did take drugs partly because of Magnusson but also because he thought you were through with him.

“My brother feels he has been abandoned by everyone he’s ever cared about. I was the first, and I will forever regret that. He’s believed since he was a child that he’s not worth caring about. He believes no one’s ever loved him. That there’s nothing in him to love. Even our parents — he felt abandoned by them when they sent him to boarding school. He begged them not to leave him with people who tormented him night and day. When he was a teenager, they sent him to a psychiatrist who told them he was a sociopath. They put him into an asylum while I was in university. They locked him in a room in a straightjacket for days until he was almost catatonic. They wouldn’t feed him, left him in his own filth. He lost a lot of weight. I went to visit him and told my parents what was happening. It took a long time for him to trust them again. He started taking drugs not long after.”

“I . . . I had no idea.”

“Sherlock locked himself away. When he met Gregory Lestrade then Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, he started to feel a bit different. But it was you. You’re the closest person to him. He trusts you or he did. He loves you so much, but you left him, John.

“Now he feels like he really isn’t worth anything. Everything’s gone. Those monsters took everything except you. And now he feels like he might as well be in the asylum again. I will not have him destroyed. Not by you and not by those bastards who tortured him.”

“I wouldn’t . . . I couldn’t destroy him.”

“You already have. We can only try and fix what you’ve taken from him.”

“From the sound of things, he needs to be in an asylum,” Mary said. “You and your family destroyed him. Don’t blame John. John doesn’t need to fix him.”

“It would do well for you, Mrs. Watson, to keep you mouth shut.”

“Don’t talk to my wife that way.”

“The wife who murdered my brother? Believe me, John, if she’d been anyone else, she’d be locked up in a small cell in the middle of nowhere or rotting in the earth.”

Mary managed to look frightened.

“Go back to see him. You will convince him that you could never leave him.”

“I will. I’ll do whatever I can to help him.”

“Very good. Dr. Cooper is going to keep him sedated today, but he’ll try to wake him tonight. I’ll expect you after dinner. And you, Mrs. Watson, I expect you to stay away.”

Mycroft gathered the pictures and closed his briefcase. “I will have a discussion with your employers. So if you miss time, it won’t be counted against you. I’ll also be depositing a stipend into your account to cover any shortfalls, especially given the lack of a second paycheque, should the pregnancy turn out to be real.”

“I won’t take money from you for going to see Sherlock,” John said, bristling.

“It appears I have to in order to have you pretend to care about him.”

“Stop saying that. I do care,” John snapped.

“Apparently not, if you let your wife tell you to tell him you couldn’t see him again. For a man who was a soldier, and who had no problem beating my brother, you seem rather bullied by your charming wife.”

Mary sucked in her breath, her expression furious. 

Mycroft stood up. “I believe our business is concluded. I will see myself out. And I will see you this evening, Dr. Watson.”

The house was silent when Mycroft closed the front door. 

When Mycroft returned to 221B, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her rooms as soon as she heard the outside door open.

“Mycroft? How’s Sherlock?”

“He had a breakdown, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve just been to see Dr. Watson. He’ll be back soon. Mrs. Watson will no longer be making demands. I think once Sherlock sees John again, he’ll be much better. Don’t worry.”

Mycroft went up in the lift, where he found Dr. Cooper in the bedroom with Sherlock. “How is he?”

Dr. Cooper looked up. “Stable.”

“Dr. Watson will be returning later.”

Sam made them dinner and Ben arrived soon after. 

John looked uncomfortable under Mycroft’s disapproving look. Mycroft took him in to see Sherlock. John gasped seeing Sherlock’s bruised face and swollen nose and the restraints. He sat down beside Sherlock and took his hand.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

“I’ll bring him out of the sedation,” Dr. Cooper said, as he filled a syringe.

“I think you should take the restraints off,” Mycroft said. “Or he might flashback to the warehouse.”

“Of course. It’ll take a bit for him to wake up.”

They removed the restraints and waited.

Sherlock began to stir, and John clutched his hand. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock moaned. “Jawwn?” his slurred voice said.

“I’m here. I’m here for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock moaned again and opened his eyes.

“I’m here,” John said again.

Sherlock looked at him.

“Thirsty?”

Sherlock nodded. John helped him raise his head and held out a cup with a straw. Sherlock drank all of it.

“More?”

Sherlock nodded. John refilled the cup, and Sherlock drank all of it too.

“Do you need the loo?”

Sherlock nodded. Brad picked him up and carried him to the loo. John followed, opening the door and helping to hold a very weak Sherlock up.

When he was finished, Brad carried him back in and put him in bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know. My face hurts.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Dr. Cooper asked.

“John left. I had a nightmare. Did I hit myself?”

“Yes. I’ll give you a shot for the pain.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m here now. I won’t leave you. I promise,” John said.

“You promise? You . . . you promised before,” Sherlock said, such a look of hope and gratitude on her face that he looked like a teenager. 

“I promise.”

“But Mary said . . .”

“It’s alright. We talked and I told her how important you are. How much I need you. She understands,” John lied. The old Sherlock would have caught the lie immediately, but his Sherlock just smiled, delighted. He struggled to try and sit up. He held his arms out to John, who hugged him.

“I was so scared I’d never see you again. I couldn’t live without you.”

“You don’t have to, Sherlock. Never. I promise. I might not be able to come every day, but I’ll talk to you. I’ll check on you.”

Sherlock smiled. “My John. Mycroft,” he said, looking at his brother. “My John. He came back.”

“I’m very happy for you, Sherlock.”

“I’m glad you came back,” Sherlock said and hugged John tighter.

“You hungry?”

Sherlock nodded.

“There’s some soup. How about that and maybe a sandwich and some fruit?”

Sherlock nodded. Brad went out to cook for him. 

Mycroft saw the look of sheer happiness on Sherlock’s face and was glad he’d interfered, if only to see this just once. His brother had suffered so much, it was wonderful to see him have a bit of happiness.

Brad brought in Sherlock’s dinner on a tray. Dr. Cooper suggested that they leave while he ate. 

“I’ll feed him,” John said.

Sherlock smiled and nodded. As the rest of them left, John helped Sherlock sit against the backboard of the bed. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t want to make a scene with everyone here. I just wanted to get a chance to talk to her and make her see how much you mean to me.”

“I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have overreacted like I did. If I hadn’t had that nightmare . . .”

“What nightmare?” John asked. He knew he didn’t dare let on that he knew.

Sherlock quickly told him about the dream.

“I’d never abandon you. If I could have found you sooner, I would have. What they did to you doesn’t make you dirty. You’re still my Sherlock. And I’ll always care about you.”

Sherlock smiled as John started to feed him.

John felt so guilty for lying to Sherlock. Sherlock would think that he was overreacting and blame himself. But he knew he couldn’t tell Sherlock that Mycroft had had to come and get him. That he was willing to let Sherlock, his best friend, go through all of that. He’d done so much to hurt Sherlock since he’d come back. And now . . . 

He smiled at Sherlock. He asked Sherlock if he wanted some tea and maybe some dessert.

Sherlock nodded. John knew all about Sherlock’s sweet tooth. “I’ll go start the tea and rummage around for dessert. Do you want me to ask someone to sit with you?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

John took the dishes out and started the kettle. He looked in the fridge and found a piece of cheesecake.

He turned around and found Mycroft uncomfortably in his face. “How did you lie to him?”

“I . . . I told him I just had to tell Mary how important Sherlock is to me, that I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“So now he’ll blame himself for overreacting.” 

John couldn’t look him in the eye.

“And you claim he’s your best friend. If he ever finds out, this will destroy him.”

“I . . . I know. I can’t . . . I won’t . . .”

“Go feed him his dessert.”

John fed Sherlock, and the two talked for awhile. Dr. Cooper came in the check Sherlock once more before he went home.

“I’m sorry for everything, Doctor. I shouldn’t have overreacted so much. I worried everyone. I should have known better than to ever doubt my John,” Sherlock said.

“It’s alright,” Dr. Cooper said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The faith that Sherlock had in John touched John. But it was somehow tainted now. He felt so guilty. He needed a drink. As happy as Sherlock was, he knew he’d be returning home to an angry Mary, who had no doubt locked him out of the bedroom.

John talked to Sherlock for a long time. 

“I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for it.”

“Please don’t say that. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.” John crawled into bed next to Sherlock and held him in his arms.

Sherlock ducked his head under John’s chin. “This is my favourite thing ever.” Sherlock snuggled into John.

“Are you sure you’re feeling better?”

“My nose hurts, but I’m okay. You don’t have to stay. I’m sure you want to get home.”

“Mary knew I was going to stay for awhile. It’s okay.”

They laid there for a long time, not speaking. 

John felt a bit better knowing that Sherlock was as happy as he could be just having John there. 

Brad brought Sherlock in his pills along with a sleeping pill that Dr. Cooper had left behind. Brad got him up and took him to the loo to get ready for bed. He laid him back down and turned on his nightlight and music. 

“How about I stay until you fall asleep?” John asked.

“That would be nice.”

When Sherlock was fully asleep, John quietly got out of the bed and bend down to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

He closed Sherlock’s door and found Mycroft in the sitting room. 

“He’s asleep.”

“Make sure you come back tomorrow.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Just make sure you do it. Your promises aren’t worth much.”

John put on his shoes and jacket and left. It was still only ten so he texted Greg to see if he wanted a quick pint.

Greg happened to have Monday off, so they met.

“Jesus, John, you look awful. What’s wrong? Is Sherlock okay?”

“He is now. I did a horrible thing to him. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for it.”

“What did you do? It can’t be that bad.”

He quickly outlined what had happened with Mary and that she didn’t want him to see Sherlock.

“Was she jealous?”

“Mary doesn’t like me seeing someone who’s in love with me. She told me I had to either choose Sherlock or her and Rosie. What was I supposed to do? Somehow Sherlock figured it out. He had a panic attack. We talked about it a bit before Mary came in. He told her that she’d won. And he asked if he could at least send Rosie birthday and Christmas presents. She didn’t even ask me, just told him that it would be too confusing for her.”

“I hate to say it, John, but that’s fucked up. To make you chose between her and your disabled best friend.”

“I know it’s fucked up. I just went along with it. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have. Sherlock got through the night, but he had a nightmare about me coming into the warehouse and refusing to rescue him because I thought he was dirty and disgusting after what they did to him. He had a major meltdown. They had to tie him down and sedate him.”

“Jesus. Poor Sherlock.”

“Mycroft came over right after and read the riot act. I was to go see Sherlock, and Mary wasn’t to make a fuss. He threatened us. Not that I blame him. I told him I would go. Then Mary drops another bomb. She says she’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant? Have you guys been trying?”

“No. We were using birth control. Or at least I thought we were. She told me we were. I don’t know if she’s just said that or if it’s real. We had a row about it afterward. She showed me the pregnancy test. I mean, it’s just a bit suspicious, don’t you think? She wants me to stop seeing Sherlock and suddenly there’s another baby. And she won’t be able to work, she tells me. And I can’t miss time at work.”

“It does sound suspicious. You think she’s been planning this for awhile?”

“After Sherlock’s abduction, maybe. After we found out how badly hurt he was, how much time he’d require, how . . . broken and depressed he was . . . it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“She already knew Sherlock loved you.”

“Apparently I was the only one who didn’t.”

“It was kind of obvious, mate.”

“And Mycroft started telling me about Sherlock’s childhood and issues with abandonment, his almost non-existent self-esteem. It made me feel terrible. So I promised I’d be back. He told me to pretend I still cared about him, and he’d make sure I didn’t lose my job. That’s what hurt most. Mycroft thinking I didn’t care at all.”

“You were hard on him after he came back from Europe.”

“I know I was. Mycroft showed me pictures of Sherlock’s injuries. He was really badly hurt after he came back. When I hit him, I opened up all those wounds on his back. He had to go to Molly to get her to fix him up. Mycroft had 221B bugged. He saw Sherlock return that night, in tears. And I kept putting him through more and more, even after I found out he did it to save me, you, and Mrs. Hudson. What am I supposed to do about it now? I can’t tell him I know.

“So I go back and Dr. Cooper brings him out of the induced sedation. Sherlock sees me there and there’s a huge smile on his face. My John, he called me. My John’s back, he said. I had to lie and say I didn’t want to make a scene, that I never meant to not come back. And he believed me. He always told me I couldn’t lie, but he didn’t question it at all. And he blamed himself, said he shouldn’t have questioned me. That he should have known that his John would never leave. How the hell am I supposed to live with that? Every time I see him, I’m going to know that I made him feel bad about himself because I lied to him. I can’t ever tell him the truth. If he knew Mycroft came and threatened us to get me to come back, it’d break him even worse than he’s already broken. For fuck’s sake, when he thought I’d gone, he begged Dr. Cooper to take him back to the asylum and drug him until he couldn’t think or feel anymore.”

Greg shook his head.

“He needs me. But how can I do this? How can I be with him knowing that I came back because of Mycroft? That I was too weak to stand up to Mary?”

“You have to put him first, John. Not your guilt. Would he ever have abandoned you? Even if he didn’t love you?”

John thought for a long time. “No. No he wouldn’t. He did leave after Bart’s, but only to save me. He went through all that torture and loneliness and fear to make sure I was safe. And I treated him like shite. And for so long afterward. I blamed him for everything. Then made him participate in my wedding. He was in love with me, for fuck’s sake, and I made him stand there and watch me marry someone else. And I abandoned him. A whole month. It’s no wonder he went back to drugs. And then he killed Magnusson in front of Mycroft and all those security men to keep Mary and me safe. And he was being sent off on a mission to die when Moriarty’s message came.”

“To die?”

“That’s what Mycroft told me later. He was being sent back to Eastern Europe to die. And he didn’t tell me. He made me laugh because he didn’t want me to be upset, didn’t want my last memory of him to be sad.”

“He really does love you, doesn’t he?”

“And I will never in a million years deserve it. Not after what I’ve done. He told me that I was the only one he ever wanted. He wanted me to be the first and the only one to ever . . .”

“Have sex with him?”

John nodded.

“He was a virgin?”

“Before he was kidnapped, yeah. He was going to offer himself to me the night he came back from his two years away. And then he saw me with Mary, and I think I broke his heart.”

“He never let anyone know.”

“He wouldn’t. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s good enough for me. He never has.”

“You do seem to have a rather screwed-up mess going on.”

“I can’t hurt him anymore. I just can’t. I don’t know what to do, Greg.”

“You’re sure you don’t love him, in that way, I mean?”

“It’s not like I’ve never thought about it. I mean kissing him, anyway. But I made a commitment to Mary.”

“If it’s taken him this long to fall in love, John, I can’t imagine how long it’ll take him to fall out of love and then in love again. I don’t know about you but I’m not over my wife yet. And I don’t know that I’ll ever completely be over her. And she cheated on me. You’re his first love. And you said he doesn’t think he’s good enough. I’m afraid he’s going to spend the rest of his life alone.”

“He’s told me that no one would ever care about him. That he was broken and ugly. He was convinced Mycroft was going to send over someone like a delivery guy or something to flirt with him or try to have sex with him.”

“The poor guy.”

“Can you imagine your only experience with sex to be what he went through?” 

Greg shook his head, his heart aching for his friend. “I’m gonna go and see him.”

“You should.”

“Hey, yes, you’ve made some really dumb moves, but you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. Job, from what I can tell a pissed-off wife, a daughter, a baby on the way, and a best friend who needs you. Anyone would be upset.” He looked at his watch. “It’s after midnight. You have work tomorrow?”

“Not until noon.”

“You better get home anyway and try and sleep.”

John thanked Greg for listening and made his way home. There was a blanket and pillow on the sofa. He sighed, went to the loo, and took some paracetomol, took off his shoes, and lay down on the sofa. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about Sherlock and how happy he’d been. The big smile and how right it had felt holding the fragile man in his arms. 

 

When Sherlock woke up in the morning, he was feeling better. There was still a lot of pain, but he knew that he wasn’t going to lose John. He called for Sam, who bathed him and got him ready for the day. He ate his breakfast then asked Sam to go ask Mrs. Hudson to come up and watch crap morning telly with him.

“My John came back. I was so sure he wouldn’t. But I was wrong. I know he can’t come every day, but he’s not leaving.”

“I’m glad, dear. I told you that boy cares about you. He has since you first met.”

Sherlock shivered.

“You cold, love?”

“Just a bit.”

“It is a little nippy. Sam, do you think you could put the fire on?”

Soon the flat was nice and warm. Sam sat in John’s chair as a game show came on and he tried to guess the answers.

Mrs. Hudson went downstairs during a commercial break and brought her knitting back with her. “I’m going to knit you a nice warm sweater. It’s cold in here unless the fire’s on.”

“Thank you.” 

“Here, Sherlock. Hold up your hands.” Mrs. Hudson threaded the yarn around his hands so she could start rolling a ball of yarn.

Sherlock looked at each of the people in the room. It was warm and cozy. The old Sherlock would have hated this. Would have hated the monotony and the domesticity of it. But that Sherlock was gone and this Sherlock liked the quiet, the peacefulness of it. After all, what else could he do? All the resources he had to solve crimes were gone. He could read, he supposed. Mycroft had gotten him a device to help him turn pages. But now, it was nice sitting with Mrs. Hudson and Sam.

When the news came on, Sherlock was tempted to ask them to turn it off. He didn’t want to hear about the outside world. He had no plans to be out in it and didn’t want to know what he was missing.

“How about we order some dinner tonight from Angelo’s?” he said. “My treat.”

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“I’m sure we have a menu here. Sam, I think it’s in the junk drawer in the kitchen. Next time you’re out there, can you look for it?”

“Sure. Speaking of which, it’s lunch time. Any preferences?”

They settled on spaghetti. 

After lunch, Sherlock asked Sam to help him order some books and movies from Amazon. Sherlock couldn’t wait to get them. He picked out a copy of Great Expectations from the shelf and took it to the table to read while Mrs. Hudson and Sam continued to watch telly. 

After a lovely dinner, Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs. Greg showed up around shift change, and Sherlock smiled, happy to see him. 

“How are you, Greg?” he asked.

Greg looked a bit taken aback.

“Yes, I do know your name,” Sherlock smiled.

Greg laughed.

“Greg, this is Brad Hunter, my caregiver. Brad, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.” Greg shook Brad’s hand. 

“Nice to meet you.” 

Greg sat down in Sherlock’s chair and the three started talking. Greg began to tell Brad about some of the things Sherlock had done in the past. 

“No fair. I can’t remember some of that. You could be making this up,” Sherlock said.

“Truth is stranger than fiction, mate,” Greg laughed.

Brad was laughing at some of the stories, and Sherlock looked mortified.

They heard Mrs. Hudson open the door downstairs, and someone coming up the lift. The click of an umbrella sounded as the lift door opened. 

“Hello, Sherlock. Gregory.” 

“Come in, sit down,” Sherlock said. “Greg is embarrassing me and making Brad laugh, telling her stories about some of my escapades as a consulting detective.”

Mycroft smiled. “Should I tell you some stories about Sherlock’s childhood?”

“Yes, yes,” Greg said.

“Brad, could you make us some tea?” Sherlock asked.

Drinking their tea, Mycroft started telling carefully embellished stories of Sherlock and his precociousness. Sherlock could feel himself turning red.

Greg was roaring with laughter when Mycroft told him a story about a very naked, four-year-old Sherlock running through the midst of a dinner party which included a Viscount and a well-known novelist. Even Mycroft was chuckling. “He managed to evade both of our parents and ran across the table then out the door. They caught him, and he was grounded for two weeks — which meant he couldn’t do any of his experiments. Longest two weeks ever.”

“You made that up,” Sherlock said indignantly.

“No indeed. The Viscount told the story for years at every party of his I attended. Then there was the time you and your dog snuck into church. You were dressed like a pirate. You crawled up on the back pew, yelling, “Avast ye hardies! I claim this building and all within for Long John Sherlock!” Mother was mortified.”

Sherlock heard someone coming up the lift. He didn’t bother to turn around when the door opened. “John, you’ve got to help me. Greg and My are telling embarrassing stories about me.”

John moved around to face Sherlock and smiled broadly before sitting down on the sofa. “Well, if it’s embarrassing stories you want . . .” before he launched into a story about Sherlock chasing a suspect and falling into the Thames. Then he told the story of Sherlock calling Anderson every name under the sun before Anderson found a critical piece of evidence that solved the case.”

Sherlock smiled, but he was starting to feel bad. Some of the stories sounded familiar but many of them didn’t. His memory was good for the bad things that had happened, but a lot of these stories weren’t really bad, just embarrassing. It was like they were talking about someone else. And it made him realize how much of his life he’d lost.

John looked at Sherlock when Mycroft launched into a story about an extremely memorable Christmas morning. He leaned over and whispered to Sherlock, “You okay?”

“I just need a minute,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Keep going,” John said. “Gonna take Sherlock to the loo.” He wheeled Sherlock into the loo and sat down on the edge of the tub. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No. You’re upset.”

“I can’t remember most of those stories, John. It’s like it all happened to someone else. They took my body and my mind and my past.”

“You don’t know the memories won’t come back.”

“But everything I remember really clearly is bad or painful. I remember being tormented and beaten up at school. I remember being on drugs. I remember Redbeard dying. I remember that awful two years and every second of what happened in the warehouse.”

“Don’t you have anything good?”

“I remember the day I met you. I knew you were an army doctor, you’d been invalided home from Afghanistan. I knew you had a brother who was worried about you but you wouldn’t go to him for help because you didn’t approve of him — possibly because he was an alcoholic, more likely because he had recently walked out on his wife. And I knew your therapist thought your limp was psychosomatic, quite correctly.” Sherlock smiled. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

John smiled. “What else?”

“I remember when I fell in love with you. It was after I gave all those deductions about you in the cab on the way to the Pink Lady crime scene and you told me I was extraordinary. Because you meant it. And I could tell. And you were the first person to ever tell me that.”

John smiled again.

“And that. Your smile. When everything is bad, when I see them in my head or feel them. I close my eyes and I see your smile, hear your laugh, and it makes me so I can bear it.”

John felt a lump in his throat and his eyes stung.

He pulled Sherlock into him arms. “I’ll always be here for you. Anytime that anything’s overwhelming, just call and I’ll come.”

“I was telling the truth at your wedding reception, you know. You, John Watson, you keep me right, always.”

“Shall we go back out?”

“I think I can face them now.”

John flushed the toilet and rinsed his hands before taking Sherlock back to the sitting room. 

“How about you, Sherlock? Any funny stories?” Greg asked.

“Not any I can remember,” Sherlock said. “Sorry.”

Mycroft reached out and patted Sherlock’s arm. “That’s alright, Little Brother. I’m sure some will come back to you given some time.”

They all sat in silence for a bit, seeming uncomfortable.

“I don’t want anyone to feel bad. I’m sorry for making everyone uncomfortable,” Sherlock said, his head down.

“Not at all,” Greg said. “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“Not much. Mrs. Hudson and I watch telly and talk. I ordered a lot of books and blu-rays to watch. So that’ll keep us busy.”

“Should get out more. Go to the park or out shopping.”

“I’m not really comfortable with the idea of going out, yet. I’d like to, but I just don’t want people staring at me.”

“Hey, buddy. I can understand that. But you can’t live your whole life in these few rooms.”

“If I was stronger right now, it probably wouldn’t matter but people know who I am. They’ve seen my picture in the paper. If I go out and someone recognizes me, my picture could end up in the paper or on websites. I . . . I don’t want people laughing at me,” Sherlock whispered, his head down.

“Hey, they won’t be laughing,” John said gently.

“You know they will. You’ve seen comment sections, even on your blog. How many will say that I deserved it?”

“People hide behind their anonymity on the Internet,” Mycroft said. “They seem to think it gives them license to say whatever nasty and vile things that pop into their minds. You can’t pay them any mind, Sherlock. They’re cowards who have no place in civilized society. I mean making fun of someone in a wheelchair? How low could a person get?”

“I know, My. I know I shouldn’t be so sensitive about it. Maybe. Maybe I can try. I really have brought the mood of the room down, haven’t I? I’m so sorry. None of you will ever want to come back.”

“Don’t be silly,” Greg said. “We’re your friends and your family and we all care about you.”

“Really?”

“Of course we do. Now, let’s do something fun. How about a word game? Ummmm,” he thought. “An alphabet game — first names.”

They spent the rest of the evening going through the alphabet with first names, last names, places, and things. They laughed and joked and drank tea and Sherlock felt part of the group. He felt included. The old him would have found the game silly and childish, but he didn’t.

It was after ten before Greg stood and stretched. “Sorry folks, but I’ve got to be at work by 8. I really hate to cut the night short. It’s been fun.”

“I should go as well. I’ve got lots of fingers in lots of pies, and they’ll need looking into,” Mycroft said, standing. 

“Figurative or literal pies?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, smiling. “Most amusing.”

John laughed.

“Thank you for coming. I really had a good time,” Sherlock said.

They said their goodbyes.

Sherlock looked at John. “Reluctant to go home? You and Mary still quarrelling over me?”

“No. No. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I will be. I think so. You know, before all of this, despite what you may have thought, I had hopes and dreams and occasionally I even wished for things. But now there’s nothing. Hopes and dreams and wishes are stupid and pointless. They’re like believing in leprechauns and unicorns.”

“You shouldn’t think that way. It’s okay to have dreams. To have something to look forward to.”

“What do I have to look forward to, John? Pain, loneliness, boredom.”

“You don’t have to have those things. One day you’ll feel strong enough to leave the flat. You can go places and do things.”

Sherlock shook his head. “And there’s the biggest lie of all — love.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not real, John. It can’t be. If it was real then why isn’t there any for me?”

“You are loved, Sherlock,” John said, reaching out to him. “You’re family, your friends. We love you.”

“The parents who thought I was strange, who sent me away to school, who won’t come to visit me because seeing what they did to me upsets them? My brother who tolerates me, makes fun of me, thought I was a burden? Friends who pity me now?

“Even if I did accept that they might love me in a way, I meant love — romantic, ‘I love you’ love. There’s none for me. It’s fine for everyone else. I know people thought that I didn’t care about anything like love. You were right at Bart’s, you know. Most people thought I was a machine. But I did. I did think about it. I thought about being held by someone who loved me. Having someone say ‘I love you’ to me. Of lying in bed with my head on his chest listening to his heart beat. I thought about having a family, about a son or a daughter with my hair and eyes. I imagined what it would feel like to kiss someone I really loved, what making love would feel like. What it would be like to walk down the street hand in hand. Or to look down at my finger and see a ring there knowing it meant I belonged to him and he belonged to me. I thought about all of that, John. But only after you came into my life, never before. You were the only one I ever thought of as that person.

“Do you remember our first case and I asked you if you were dying what you would say. When they started pounding my head into the floor at the warehouse, I felt my nose snap then my jaw. And I knew, I knew that I could die. If not, I knew that there could be brain damage so bad that I’d never be me again. And I panicked — sure that it plus everything else they put me through — would kill me. And all I could think was that I was brain damaged, I’d forget you. I’d forget your smile. I’d forget how you made me feel. I’d forget the colour of your eyes when you were happy. So I closed my eyes. I stopped trying to fight and I pictured your face. I pictured you smiling at me. And the last thing I said before I lost consciousness was ‘John’.”

Sherlock heard a sniff and looked up.

Tears were pouring down John’s face. He made no move to wipe them away. “Oh, Sherlock,” he whispered. He reached out to touch Sherlock’s wet face. “What have I done to you?”

“You made me live, John. You made me love. You gave me something I never thought I’d ever have.” He smiled at John and reached up to wipe the tears from his face. “You didn’t run screaming or call me a freak when I deduced all those things about you. You stayed with me. You took care of me when I was too focussed to eat or sleep or when I got hurt or sick. You forgave me after I came back. You told me I was your best friend and asked me to be your best man. You made me Rosie’s godfather. You smile at me. You hold my hand. You sit beside me now and make the pain go away.”

“But how much pain have I caused you? How much pain do I cause you every day?”

“I never, ever expected that anyone could ever be in love with me, least of all you.” He smiled. “You care about me but you don’t love me and you never will. Even if you were gay or bisexual or pansexual. Even then, I knew you couldn’t love me.”

John looked at Sherlock in shock. “I know you think you don’t deserve to be loved, Sherlock. I’ve always known that. But you do. And I do love you. I’ll always love you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You care about my welfare, I’ll give you that. But you don’t love me. I’m your friend, and I know that, within reason, you would do almost anything for me. But I’ve always known that I care for you more than you care for me. Though I was a freak, then and now, you never treated me like one. You loved the adrenaline being with the consulting detective provided. You loved the danger and the intrigue. I can’t give you any of that now.

“I’ve always known I didn’t deserve real true love. I’ve long since given up on it. I know I’ll never be loved for me, for who I am. It’s impossible. A person can’t be loved if even they hate themselves. It’s quite simply that.”

“Why? How could you hate yourself?”

Sherlock smiled. “There’s never been anything here to love. I was pompous, rude, condescending, never knew when to shut up, I’d deduce peoples’ whole life stories in front of them, I embarrassed people, I was nasty, vain, I used people, I was a drug addict, I was proud, rash. I could go on, but it would take half the night. You were the only one who could stand to be around me. And now I’m just pathetic and worthless. I’m ugly and good-for-nothing. So yes, John, I hate myself and I always will. Even if, miracle of miracles, someone told me they loved me, I wouldn’t believe them.”

John reached down to pick Sherlock up. He sat down on the sofa, holding Sherlock on his lap. Sherlock leaned his head down so his forehead was resting on the top of John’s head. John pulled him close.

“You think so little of yourself, Sherlock. I could never understand it.”

“When you’re told all your life how bad you are, you believe it after awhile. Everyone can’t be wrong, John.” Sherlock breathed in the scent of John.

“I’ve never said you were bad.”

“You said I was a machine. And a cock and a dickhead.”

“I know . . . I know. But you aren’t bad.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree. You’ll never convince me I’m worth love.”

“I’m going to convince you some day. Some day you’ll believe you’re a good man. You’re the best man that I know.”

Sherlock wished he could believe it. “It won’t happen. It doesn’t matter anyway, John. No one will ever love me. It’s all moot. I won’t be engaging in any social interactions with anyone outside my immediate circle of acquaintances. And it wouldn’t matter.” Sherlock pulled away and touched John’s face, looking into his eyes. “My heart will only ever belong to you. No one else could ever have a chance, ever.”

John was hoping to see something there, some indication of doubt. But searching that mysterious eye that always seemed to be able to see through to John’s soul, he saw nothing but truth and love. And he believed Sherlock more than he’d ever believed anyone. 

“And it’s alright. I have you in my heart, John. You’ll always be there making me feel safe and warm.” He smiled at John and laid the side of his face on top of John’s head. “Just hold me for awhile, please?”

“As long as you want.” John closed his eyes and held Sherlock even closer.

After awhile, Sherlock’s breath started to even out, and John could feel him relaxing.

“You falling asleep?”

“Mmmmm.” 

“Should get you to bed.”

“Would you help me?”

“Sure.” John moved Sherlock off his lap. He got him ready for bed, and Brad got him his meds. He laid him down and pulled up the covers.

“Would you stay until I fall asleep?”

John smiled at him. “Of course.” He turned on Sherlock’s nightlight and music and turned off the light before he laid down next to Sherlock and watched as he slowly relaxed and fell asleep. 

John was so touched. He wished with all his heart he could help Sherlock find love. Sherlock had been hurt so badly in the past by everyone he’d ever cared about, including John. But he’d have to find a way, some way, to convince Sherlock that he was worth loving. 

It made him feel . . . blessed, he guessed, to know that someone like Sherlock loved him so deeply, so without reservation. And certainly more than Mary ever could. He felt like that story in the Bible about Solomon and the baby that was claimed by two mothers. Solomon had decided to cut the baby in two and each mother would have half. The fake mother agreed but the real mother would rather give up the baby then see her son get killed. Sherlock had already proved he’d give up John if he had to, even if it made him miserable.

John got up and headed home to another night on the sofa. 

 

Sherlock was playing a game of chess with Sam around noon when Sherlock’s mobile rang. It was Molly.

“Sherlock, I don’t mean to bother you, but I was watching telly at lunch and they’re going to do a story on you after the break,” Molly said. Sherlock felt his heart start beating faster. Molly told him the channel. Sherlock thanked her and asked Sam to turn on the television.

The news was just coming back from commercial. A man in a suit started. “All of London has been talking lately about the seeming disappearance of famous detective Sherlock Holmes. Had he faked his death again? Had he moved or retired? According to our exclusive sources the answer is quite a bit more serious. This channel has learned that Holmes was kidnapped several months ago. Details are sketchy, but the detective was tortured before he was found and spent several weeks near death. We’ve also learned that he spent several months in a mental hospital. We’ve been told Holmes is paralyzed, his arms and hands are nearly useless, and is severely brain damaged.

“We have also obtained this exclusive photograph of the detective leaving the mental institution.” A picture flashed on the screen.

“Oh . . . God,” Sherlock whispered as his eyes filled with tears. He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

The picture was very clear. Sherlock must have been looking in that direction. The scars on his face were very easy to see and the missing fingers.

“As you can see, the once-handsome detective is now severely scarred. We’ve been told he lives at home with twenty-four hour medical care. It appears that Holmes’s life as a detective is no longer possible. We are following up on the story and will report when we have more information.”

Sherlock felt like his world was crumbling around him. He knew it would happen. Someone would find out. But this . . . his face — his scarred face — across the television. The press would be camped outside his door, trying to find out how he was, how bad his brain damage was. They would harass Mrs. Hudson and anyone coming into 221B.

His mobile rang. It was still in his hand. He blindly tried to hit receive and succeeded on his third attempt. He held the mobile to his ear, too stunned to speak.

“Sherlock? Is that you?”

“How? How did they find out so much, My?” he asked his brother, his voice thick with emotion. “They know everything.”

“Not quite everything bur far, far more than they should. I don’t know how they found out or where the picture is from, but believe me, Little Brother, heads will roll for this.”

“I appreciate that, but it won’t stop. That picture will be everywhere. The reporters will be here, standing outside the door asking questions. They’ll harass Mrs. Hudson and anyone who comes here. They’ll go to John’s and bother Greg.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have extra men outside your door, and I’ll have them watch John’s place and Gregory’s.”

Sherlock calmed down a bit before something else occurred to him. “My?” he said in a very small voice. “My, you don’t think it was them, do you?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I haven’t been able to find them. And I have the best people looking. I will find out, I promise. Are you alright?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Who’s there?”

“Just Sam. Mrs. Hudson is out.”

“Do you want me to call John?”

“No. He’s at work. I don’t want to bother him.”

“I’ll be over as soon as the balls are set in motion.”

“It’s alright, My. I won’t fall apart. Make sure no one bothers Mummy and Daddy, okay?”

“Of course. Be strong, Little Brother.”

“I’ll try.”

When he hung up, he noticed there were two messages. He played the first. “Jesus, Sherlock,” Greg said. “Do you want me to send over some of my men to keep the press away? I’m so sorry about this. So sorry. Please let me know if you want my men.”

He called Greg back and told him Mycroft was taking care of it. He thanked Greg, who promised he’d do what he could to find out who it was.

The second message was from a tearful Molly. “Oh Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I know that’s probably upset you so much. Please let me know if you need anything.”

He called her back and tried to calm her down. “I’ll be alright,” he said, though he knew he probably wouldn’t be.

“Would you mind if I came over tonight? I was going to come anyway, but I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“It would be so nice to see you again, Molly.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you, Molly.”

Sherlock put his mobile down. 

“Are you alright?” Sam asked.

“No. I don’t think so. I knew this was going to happen eventually. It’s okay, Mycroft’s coming.”

Mycroft showed up an hour later.

Sherlock looked up. His head was spinning, his emotions welling up, and he hoped his brother was here to save him, to make it better.

Mycroft knelt down so he was face to face with Sherlock, searching his face. After a moment, “You’re not alright. My men are outside. No one here will be bothered, I promise. I’ve been in touch with the owner of the television channel and threatened to have his broadcast license permanently suspended. They don’t know who the source is. They were sent a package with that picture, and some of your medical records plus a page from the police report. We’ve seized it all and the tapes. The package didn’t have any fingerprints. But we’ll have a full analysis done. I can’t guarantee there aren’t any copies anywhere.”

“Thank you, My,” Sherlock said, reaching out to touch his brother’s hand. “Someone really wanted to get that information out. They would have had to bribe someone at the hospital and the police department.”

“I’ll let Gregory know. He can start an investigation there, and I’ll start at the hospital. We’ll find them.”

Sherlock nodded. “Tea, Brother Dear?”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you.”

Sherlock asked Sam to make some tea. 

Mycroft sat down. “Playing chess. Who’s winning?”

“I was,” Sam called from the kitchen.

“He’s a great player,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock asked Mycroft to help him onto the sofa. He looked at the wheelchair. “I hate that . . . thing,” Sherlock said, gesturing towards the wheelchair. “I know I need it, but I hate it. Put it in my room, will you? At least if it’s out of sight, I can pretend to be normal.”

“You are normal,” Mycroft said as he put the wheelchair away.

“There was a time I was special. Now that’s gone. I’d settle for being normal. I can just imagine the comments on John’s blog now. How many say that I deserved it or deserved worse? How many that they wish I’d died?”

“Small people who bully others because they feel bad about themselves and their own lives.”

Sherlock stared out the window for a long moment. “It’s going to be in all the papers, isn’t it?” he said with a small voice. “Mummy and Daddy will see it. And their friends. Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t even visit me in the hospital. How ashamed will they be when their friends find out that I’m paralyzed but also needed to be in a mental institution? I’ll never see them again, will I?”

“They aren’t ashamed of you,” Mycroft said as the tears started to roll down Sherlock’s face.

“They don’t visit or even call.”

“I don’t think they know what to say.”

“Then they could come and sit with me. I think you’re wrong, Mycroft. I think they are ashamed. Do you think they always have been?”

“They aren’t ashamed. They’ve never been ashamed of you.”

“The breakdowns, the psychiatrists, the drug addiction . . . of course they’re ashamed. You’re the one they’re proud of. You didn’t mind people saying bad things about you or that everyone hated you. I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to be strong. I tried to not care, like you told me. But it hurt. It hurt to know that no one wanted me. That I was always second in our house.”

“You couldn’t help any of it, Sherlock. You suffered from depression all your life. You couldn’t help how you felt. Mummy and Daddy tried to get you help. They did try.”

“That asylum? Do you know what they did to me there?”

“Yes. And they didn’t know. They got you out as soon as they did.”

“But they should have known. They starved me, left me chained to the bed for days, drugged me.”

“They didn’t know.”

“They wanted rid of me.”

“Never. They did all they could for you.”

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment. “I still think they’re ashamed of me. Especially after what those men did to me. They made me their whore, My. They said they would come back. That I was theirs and only theirs. That no one else could ever have me.” Sherlock’s voice was broken. “It’s going to come out. Someone will find out and report it. What will Mummy and Daddy say then? When their friends find out?”

“You were raped, Sherlock. You didn’t ask for that, no more than you asked to be tortured. Why would they blame you?”

“They wanted me to be a chemist or a scientist. Maybe they think I deserved it because I was a detective.”

“No one deserves what happened to you.”

“Then why won’t they come to see me?” Sherlock looked at Mycroft, the pain evident in his eye. “Don’t they love me anymore? Have they ever loved me?” Sherlock sobbed and Mycroft gathered him into his arms, hugging him tightly.

“They do love you, Sherlock. They’ll always love you.”

“Why don’t they visit?”

“I don’t know. It hurts them, I think, to see you like this.”

“But I need them.”

“I know. I’ll talk to them.”

“No. If they don’t want me, you can’t make them.”

“I love you, Little Brother. You’ll always have me.”

“I know. I know. I think there’s only you. Only you who loves me. Who truly cares.”

“What about your friends? John?”

“They care but they don’t love me, not like you. John doesn’t even care as much as I thought. I suppose I should feel lucky that anyone cares at all.”

“Sherlock, your friends love you. They’d do anything for you.”

“My, do you promise you’ll find out who leaked this to the press? Do you promise you’ll keep them from finding out I was raped?”

“I will do my utter best.”

“Have you had any luck tracking them?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They have to have very deep contacts to be able to hide this well.”

“You’re sure? Maybe someone took them out. Someone had to have arranged for the five of them to escape and get together.”

“True. We’re continuing, looking at all options. I promise you that they’ll be found. They will pay dearly for what they did to you. They’ll never see the inside of a prison.”

“Do you think they released the information?”

“It’s a possibility. But if you’re right and someone arranged for them to escape, they may be the ones who released it. There’s something you should know. Dr. Fraser was being paid by someone. After I had her removed from your case, a second payment was cancelled. The men who kidnapped you could have hired her to slow or completely derail your recovery, but I’m thinking it must have been whoever hired them.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“When we found out the truth.”

“We? Who have you told?”

“John.”

“John wouldn’t . . .”

“John wants to be in on any interrogations. I suspect that both he and Gregory will be delighted to help.”

“They both want to?”

“Sherlock, your friends are as angry as I am. They want to punish them as well.”

Sherlock nodded. If someone had hurt John or Greg or Molly or Mrs. Hudson, he’d do the same.

Sherlock thought for a moment. “This is nice,” he said. “I know that I wasn’t the best brother. I know that I caused you a lot of problems and worries. But I do love you, My. And I appreciate all you do for me.”

“And I’ll always take care of you, Sherlock.”

They heard the lift start. The old Sherlock would never let anyone see him in his brother’s arms, but he didn’t care, not anymore.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he heard John ask.

“I’ve been better,” Sherlock replied.

John moved around to sit in Sherlock’s chair. “There were press at the clinic.”

“I’ll make sure they won’t bother you again,” Mycroft asked.

“Do we know who released it?”

“Not yet. My people are working on it.”

“Mycroft stopped the telly station. They won’t be following up, and he seized what they had.”

“What did they have?”

“A page of the police report and a few pages of my medical records. And we have absolutely no idea who did it and how much information they have.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all?”

“I should get back and supervise the investigation. You’ll stay awhile with Sherlock?”

“Of course.”

Mycroft pulled away from Sherlock and touched his face. “You’ll be okay with John?”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, My. Thank you for coming. Thank you for helping me.”

Mycroft smiled. “You’re welcome. I’ll do what I can.”

“I know you will.”

Mycroft stood up and gathered up his umbrella and coat. “I’ll stop by again this evening.”

Sherlock nodded.

When they were alone, Sherlock turned to John. “You don’t have to stay, John. I know you have to work. It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to leave. I want to be here for you.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Can I get you a cuppa?”

“That would be nice.”

John sat next to Sherlock and helped him drink his tea. He noticed Sherlock shivering.

“Are you cold?”

“Not really. Just can’t seem to stop shaking.”

John reached out and touched his forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever. It’s probably nerves from what’s gone on today.” John pulled the blanket off of the back of the sofa and wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Better?”

“A little.”

“You surprised me when I came in. I never would have thought to have seen you and Mycroft holding each other.”

“Mycroft was trying to convince me that my parents haven’t abandoned me, that they aren’t ashamed of me.”

“Why would they be ashamed?”

“Now all their friends know about me. The way they made it sound on the news, I’m sure they think I can’t string two words together. They haven’t come to see me since I was in the first hospital. They didn’t visit when I came home. They didn’t visit me at the . . . mental institution. And they’ve never called. They’re ashamed of me.

“And when it comes out what else they did to me . . .”

“Sherlock, that wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”

“I wonder how many comments are on your blog now,” Sherlock said, looking out the window. “There are people out there laughing at me, John. Laughing at me because of what they did to me. Can you imagine how many of the officers at the Met are laughing behind Greg’s back?”

“If I ever catch anyone laughing at you, they’ll regret it.”

“You can’t protect me from the whole world, John.” 

“I can try.”

“I know I shouldn’t be so sensitive. But it still hurts. It still hurts.”

“I know it does. But you survived. You survived what would have killed most people.”

“Only because of you. I only survived because I wanted to come home to you.”

John reached out for Sherlock, touching his arm. Sherlock turned to him so John could see into his eye. “Do you have any idea how happy I am that you did? Do you know what it would have done to me to lose you? I’ve lost you too many times. I can’t do it again.”

“I’m sorry I put you through that,” Sherlock said, looking down. “I’m sorry about Bart’s, but I’d do it again and again if it meant your safety. The other times, they weren’t really my fault.”

“I know. And I appreciate all you’ve done for me. When I think how close I’ve come to losing you all because of me . . .”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, John. I’ll go through what I went through in that warehouse every day for the rest of my life to protect you. That night, that awful night at the pool — when I saw you wrapped in explosives — I knew I could never let you be hurt because of me. I don’t know what I could do now to save you, but I would do anything I could.”

John was moved by the passion in Sherlock’s voice. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. “I know. I know. And it makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world to know that you love me so much.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked truly and utterly surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I feel that way?”

“I thought it made you uncomfortable. I thought the idea of your best friend being in love with you, that it . . . sort of . . . disgusted you.”

John shook his head vigorously. “Don’t you ever, ever think that. Never. I know you love me. And it absolutely breaks my heart that I can’t return those feelings. I want to, I really do. But I just . . . I just can’t. I really wish I could. Oh, Sherlock, please, please don’t think I think your love is disgusting. It’s not. It’s beautiful and wonderful. And I felt so utterly humbled by it. So touched. So moved that someone as unique as you could care about someone as ordinary as me.”

“You aren’t ordinary, John. You’re my world, my life. You’re all I have left. You’re my everything.” Sherlock smiled at him. 

John pulled Sherlock into a hug. “I just wish I could give you more.”

“It doesn’t matter. You care. That has to be enough. It’s all I have to live for.”

“Don’t say that. Please Sherlock.”

“What else is there, John?”

“You’re alive. You breathe in and out. You can think. You can smile and laugh. You have friends and family.”

“And I have endless pain. I have the memories of what they did to me. I have the nightmares and flashbacks. I have the depression that won’t go away. It hurts far more to live than I imagine it ever could to die.”

“But we’ll make it. You and I. We’ll make it.”

Sherlock lay quiet in John’s arms. He’d had this argument so many times, and John just wouldn’t listen. And it felt so good, so right, to be in John’s arms. He yawned.

“Tired?”

“Mmmmm.” 

“Want to lie down?”

“Maybe.”

John stood up and helped Sherlock lie down. He covered him up before he lifted him up and sat down. He put a pillow on his lap and laid Sherlock’s head down.

“Comfortable?”

“Very.”

John reached down and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, almost petting him.

Sherlock closed his eyes. This felt wonderful. John’s warmth was keeping him warm, the fingers in his hair keeping him calm, and the smell of John making him feel safe — like nothing in the world could harm him. 

John sat there looking out the window. Sherlock was breathing deeply, sound asleep. He looked down at his face, allowing a wince at the terrible scars. His poor Sherlock.

For he knew, as Sherlock said, that there would be people out there laughing at what had happened to him, thinking he deserved it, maybe wishing they could have broken him themselves. He wished with all his heart that he could find a way to take it all away, to take some of the pain himself. He wished he could make Sherlock believe in himself, believe he was worthwhile. He wanted to love Sherlock, and he did. He would kill for Sherlock and die for him. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s soft hair again and ran the back of his knuckles down his face. He touched those full lips. 

John closed his eyes as his hand continued down Sherlock’s neck, over his shoulder, down his arm, and back up. He imagined that pale, thin body, the dark hair on his chest, the freckles, his small nipples. He imagined tracing each rib with his fingertips. But then he remembered the pale white expanse wasn’t like it had once been — flawless as marble. The bullet wound that his wife had put there — the wound that had taken Sherlock away from him — if only for a few moments. The scars from the knives, the burns, the twenty three marks on his chest, the missing fingers, the twisted and crushed legs and feet, the ruined expanse of twisted scars that made up his back.

John’s eyes snapped open. He wasn’t sure touching the ruin of Sherlock’s body was something he could ever do. He would be so scared of hurting him, that he couldn’t. He knew Sherlock would have no problem with his body — the scar on his shoulder, his softening middle, his shortness. And if it had been John who’d been tortured, Sherlock would never have left his side, would encourage him in therapy, stay with him, look after him, never let him feel alone or unwanted or unloved. 

And what about Mary? She was still angry at him, and he was more than a little angry at her. To try and force him to choose between her and Sherlock. How dare she? She had murdered his best friend. And Sherlock had murdered Magnusson to keep her safe. Sherlock was Rosie’s godfather. And the new baby? She had promised him she was on birth control. Sure, sometimes birth control failed, but this seemed too coincidental. They hardly made love anymore. The longer they were together, the more he realized that Mary would never be the person he thought she was when he’d fallen in love with her. How much of the person he thought she was had been an act anyway?

He had loved the illusion of the happy family, and he truly did love Rosie, and would no doubt love the new baby, but at least part of it was a lie. Mary would never be what he wanted, but he stayed for Rosie. Maybe the baby was Mary’s way of trying to keep John there. He’d have to tell Sherlock about the baby eventually. And Sherlock would probably see it as John continuing his life without him. 

He heard the lift start. Mrs. Hudson stepped into the sitting room. John could smell fresh biscuits.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked quietly.

John nodded. “He’s had a rough day. I think he needs it.”

“Do you want me to carry him into the bedroom?” Sam asked.

“No. It’s okay.”

“He looks so peaceful lying there,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“I wish we could get him to the point where he was at peace,” John said, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again.

“Would you like some tea and biscuits?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I was so sorry to hear what happened. I caught some of the news broadcast while I was visiting Mrs. Turner. Oh, the poor boy. He must have been so upset.”

“He was. Mycroft’s men are keeping the press away.”

“Let them come. I’ll run them off and give them a talking to.”

John smiled. Sherlock slept quietly, so calm and at peace as John had ever seen him. He wondered if it was because he was there.

An hour later, John was nodding himself when his mobile went off. Cursing that he’d not put it on vibrate, he got it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

“John, where are you? I called you at work. They said you went home. You’re not here so where the hell are you?” Mary asked.

“I’m at Sherlock’s.”

“Of course you are. What’s wrong now? Has he got a hangnail?”

“Mary . . .” he said as he sniffed. He felt anger welling in him. “Someone’s released information about Sherlock. There was a report on television with a picture from when he left the hospital. Somehow they got hold of part of the police report and part of his medical report. He’s very upset. There are reporters here and at the clinic. Mycroft’s taken care of them.”

He heard her intake of breath. “I . . . I’m sorry, John. Of course he’s upset. I understand.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be home later.”

“Okay.” He was surprised at her reaction.

He hung up. Sherlock was stirring a little but wasn’t awake. John pulled the blanket up around his neck.

“Is everything okay, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“It’ll be fine.” 

Sherlock woke up half an hour later. 

“How you feeling?” John asked.

“Better.”

John helped him sit up. “Need anything?”

“Sam, would you take me to the loo?”

Sam carried him in and brought him back to sit beside John.

They heard the bell downstairs.

“I’ll get it,” John said.

John came back up with Dr. Cooper. 

“Hello, Sherlock. Your brother phoned me and let me know what happened today. I imagine you’ll want to talk about it.”

“Not really but I suppose I have to.” Sherlock sighed. He turned to John. “Will you carry me into the bedroom?”

“Sure. I think I’ll head out. If you need me, you call me, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks for coming.”

“I’ll go down with you,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock came back out of the bedroom an hour later, his eyes red and puffy but otherwise alright. Dr. Cooper wheeled him to the table and said his goodbyes. 

 

When John got home, he was surprised to find Mary sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him. She’d been avoiding him since Mycroft’s visit.

“John,” she said. “Sit down.”

He sat down opposite her. She looked up at him. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like a jealous harpy the last little bit, and I know that I have no reason to. I’ve been so jealous of Sherlock and how he feels about you. I know I shouldn’t be. Yes, he’s deeply in love with you, but I know you don’t love him.”

“You have been wrong. And you never should have given me that ultimatum. It wasn’t fair. He needs his friends right now. All of the mind games the person behind all this is pulling are hurting him more and more. Sherlock is the most fragile I’ve ever seen him. It won’t take much to push him over the edge, and I’ve got to do whatever I can to help him.”

Mary reached out her hand and squeezed his hand. “I know. I understand. I want to be there for him too. After all he’s done for us. I’m ashamed of myself. I know you’d never sleep with him. I don’t know why I allowed myself to even think that.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said, squeezing her hand back. “I wouldn’t sleep with him. I made a vow, a commitment to you.”

She nodded and squeezed his hand again. “He’s so alone, isn’t he?”

“He thinks he is. He thinks everyone’s abandoning him because of what happened. His parents haven’t come to visit or even called.”

“Really?”

“Thank heaven he’s got Mrs. Hudson there. I’d hate to think of him alone in the flat with just a caregiver.”

“We can do what we can for him. I promise I’ll make it up to him, and I’ll make it up to you.” She smiled her best seductive smile. The one that always made John’s cock twitch, which indeed it was doing now. 

“Where’s Rosie?” he asked, as he licked his lips.

“Sleepover.”

“Ah, good woman,” he said as he stood up.

Mary smiled and stood too, meeting him half way around the table. He pulled her closer and kissed her, hard. She responded just as passionately. The coffee cup on the table ended up on floor as John swept the table clean. He pulled her shirt off as she hopped up on the table. She was pushing his jacket off his shoulders and unbuttoning his shirt as fast as she could. It joined the pile on the floor along with her bra.

John was sucking on her nipples as she reached down to undo his belt and his flies. She pushed his trousers and pants down. As the cool air hit his cock, he groaned and pulled back, pulling down her trousers with him. “No pants?” he whispered. “Good woman.” He smiled at her and threw her trousers over his shoulder.

She giggled and lay down on the table spreading her legs and wrapping them tightly around him, forcing him closer.

He reached down to prepare her, but she was already wet. So he smiled again as he pushed himself into her.

She arched her back and groaned as he bent over and started licking her nipples again.

He pounded into her as she urged him to go harder and faster. It didn’t take long. She reached down between them to rub at herself as both of them came, screaming the other’s name.

He pressed his forehead into her shoulder as she kissed the side of his head.

“Well,” she said, as he slipped from inside her. “That was . . . very enthusiastic.”

He looked up at her, smiling as he caught his breath. “You are welcome.”

She giggled. “I’m really gonna have to sterilize this table before we eat off of it again.”

He straightened up and picked her up. “Later,” he said as he carried her into the bedroom.

 

The next two days went by without any new stories in the newspapers or news programs. Sherlock had started to settle again. John visited every day and Mycroft dropped in as well. Even Greg and Molly came by again.

They were all anxious to make sure that Sherlock wasn’t alone. 

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock insisted to the worried faces of John and Mrs. Hudson. “I can’t have visitors all the time. I’m not a child. I have movies, my music, plenty of books. I’ll be fine.”

Both reluctantly agreed, though Mrs. Hudson made sure he had a special dinner before she went down for the evening. After he’d eaten, he asked Brad to put on one of his Beethoven CDs and settled in at the kitchen table with a book.

About 8:30 the doorbell rang. Sherlock rolled his eyes. No doubt it was John, come to check on him. He heard Mrs. Hudson open the door and greet someone before the lift started.

When it opened, he was surprised to see that it was Mary. John had told him about her change of heart.

“Mary, hello,” he said.

“Hi. All alone tonight?”

“Did John send you here to check on me? I’m perfectly alright.”

“No. He thinks I’m out on an errand. I wanted to come and apologize. I’m so sorry about the other night. I was being jealous and stupid and I really hurt you. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright, Mary.”

“No, it’s not. I was jealous of you. I know you love John, but I also know that he’s not in love with you. He’s in love with me. We talked it all out the other night . . . well . . . after we’d had a fantastic evening of shagging.” She smiled at the memory. “I was just feeling hormonal, I guess. John told me he thought about it — really thought about making love to you but he just couldn’t do it, especially, you know, with all the . . . scars and all.” Sherlock felt sick. To know that John had thought about it and rejected him and then told Mary. 

“That was right before he shagged me. It was a fantastic night. Make up sex really is the best, you know.”

“I wouldn’t have a frame of reference,” Sherlock said quietly.

She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” She reached out and touched his hand. “But there is good news. Though John’s probably already told you, you’re going to be a godfather again.” The look of triumph on her face almost sickened him. “It was kind of a surprise, but a good one.” 

He just caught himself from rolling his eyes. He had no doubt it wasn’t any sort of “surprise” on her part. “It’s going to be a bit rough for awhile. Can’t count on any extra from cases now, can we?” Sherlock could almost think she was just making conversation, but he had a horrible feeling she was baiting him, intentionally hurting him. “You know your brother really didn’t have to come and threaten us.”

Sherlock looked confused.

“After that night, when John said he couldn’t see you. Mycroft came over and threatened us. Said he’d send my picture out to every law enforcement and criminal organization in the world if John didn’t come back to you, if he didn’t, how did Mycroft put it — ‘pretend to still care about you.’ Can you imagine?”

That hit Sherlock in the chest like a sledgehammer. He could see why Mycroft did it. My knew that the loss of John in Sherlock’s life would be unbearable. But . . . if he said pretend to still care. My was seldom wrong. Was John only pretending to care? Was John not even his friend anymore?

“You okay?” Mary asked.

“I’m sorry that Mycroft did that. I really am. I don’t want anyone to feel obligated to visit me.”

“Oh, like your parents? John told me about that. I’m sorry. It must be hard for them to see you like this.”

“Would you abandon Rosie if she was hurt like I am?”

“Never. Of course not. No mother abandons a child they love.”

“I guess my parents don’t love me then,” he said, softly.

“That’s not what I meant. I . . . I’m sure your parents just need time to adjust.”

“Maybe. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks. I should be off. I only stopped by to settle things. I’ll bring by Rosie later in the week, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock smiled as she bent and kissed his cheek. It felt like being kissed by a cobra. 

“Night.”

“Goodnight.”

Sherlock wanted to cry and scream. All of his friendship with John . . . was it a lie? Now that he had nothing to offer him, was John really done with him? 

He felt his heart hammering in his chest. He willed it to slow.

“Sam,” he said, forcing his voice to be calm. “I’m tired. Can you put me to bed?”

“It’s not even 8.”

“I know. It’s just been a bad few days and I’m tired.”

Sam got him ready for bed. When he closed the door, Sherlock finally let the tears come. His best friend didn’t want him anymore. He felt like his heart was breaking in two. John, his John . . . Her John. He was and always would be her John now. He had no right to even ask him to come over anymore. AS Sherlock cried himself to sleep, he swore he felt something break deep inside his chest.

He decided that he needed to hide this from everyone. With a supreme amount of effort, he managed to smile and talk through breakfast. He begged off the morning chat shows, saying he wanted to read his book. He sat at the table, his back to Mrs. Hudson. The device he had turned the pages but he wasn’t reading a word. He knew he had to talk to John. He knew it. And the thought made him sick to his stomach. But he needed to look John in the eye when he asked him.

“How’s the book?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Very good,” he replied. “How’s crap telly this morning?”

Mrs. Hudson giggled. “About what you’d expect.”

“Mrs. Hudson. I hate to be a bother, but do you think you could make me that strawberry pie you sometimes make? The one with the whipped cream?”

“That does sound good. I don’t think I have any fresh berries though. And I’ll need some whipping cream.”

“Why don’t you and Sam go down to the market?”

“Why not? I think there’s a list here. There’s a few things you need. Sam, my card’s in my wallet. You’ll go with her?”

“Sure. That pie does sound good.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “I’ll make a few so you can take one home with you. I’ll just pop downstairs and change.”

When both had left, Sherlock picked up his mobile and called John. 

“Hi, Sherlock. How are you?”

“Not great, John.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Not feeling well. Can you come over in twenty minutes or so?”

“I’ll take an early lunch. I’ll be there.”

John arrived not long after the phone call. When John stepped out of the lift, Sherlock’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

“I’m sorry. I needed to talk to you immediately.”

“You worried me. I had patients.”

“I’ve heard a few things, and I needed to confirm them. I understand that my brother visited you the day after you told me you couldn’t visit me anymore.”

John looked shocked and guilty. 

That was all Sherlock needed to see.

“I know that he threatened you and Mary unless you came back to visit me and pretend you still cared about me.”

John’s eyes flickered down, unable to meet Sherlock’s. “Sherlock, I . . .”

“I understand that you and Mary have reconciled from the fight. That you had thought about what it might be like to have sex with me. But you can’t because I’m too scarred and ugly. You can’t because of what they did to me. 

“And I understand congratulations are in order. You have a new baby on the way. So go home with the woman you love — the woman who’s beautiful and unmarked — and your children. Go back to being a doctor. And forget that there’s someone who has died and killed for you because he loves you. Forget my name and where I live. Forget me. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure My leaves you alone. Goodbye, John.” Sherlock looked away from John.

“Sherlock, please. Please let me explain.”

“Was any of what I said untrue?”

“I don’t think you’re disgusting, Sherlock. I never said anything about you being too scarred to have sex with. I don’t have to pretend to care about you. I do care. I do.”

“Which is why, my brother — who’s never wrong — told you to pretend.”

“Even Mycroft can be wrong. Did he tell you this?”

“Goodbye, John. I won’t subject you to my disgusting presence anymore. Just pretend what I wish more than anything in my life — that I’d never been born.” Sherlock looked at John, and John saw the look of absolute defeat on his face.

“Don’t say that. Don’t send me away, please.”

“I’m just freeing you. I want you to be happy. That’s what I’ve always wanted. I can’t make you happy. You don’t want my love. It’s as worthless as I am. So be with the ones you love. Don’t waste your time with someone you don’t care about because of sense of obligation. It’s like I said — you are abandoning me. Now go. Go John. Be happy.”

“I . . .”

“Go.”

“Sherlock.”

“Go and don’t come back.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave you.”

“I don’t want your pity.” Sherlock turned his head. 

“Sherlock, damn it.” 

Sherlock refused to look at John or speak.

John tried to talk to Sherlock, but he wouldn’t listen. “I can’t leave it like this. I know I seem to do nothing but hurt you. I don’t mean to. I really don’t. And I do love you, Sherlock. I wish there was some way to prove it to you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’m not. I’m really not.”

“When I heard all this, I think I actually felt my heart break. I think you’ve done enough.” Sherlock’s eyes were empty.

John felt his heart breaking too. Sherlock was so lost. And he’d done this. “Who? Who told you this?”

“I think you know. She looked quite triumphant when she told me how enthusiastically you fucked her after telling her you couldn’t ever touch me. And she delighted in telling me about the baby. And that it would be tough on all of you with just your income at the clinic and no more extra coming in from cases. But I’m sure you’ll make due. I’ll have university funds set up for Rosie and the baby. I’ll make sure My does it. And I’ll have money put in your account to draw on if you ever need it.”

“I don’t want your money, Sherlock.”

“Too bad. It’s my fault that you’re missing the extra money. Now go before I call My’s men up and make you go.”

“You . . . wouldn’t.”

Sherlock looked at John, tears shining on his face. “I don’t want to, but I will if I have to.”

“O . . . okay, I’ll go. But you have to know that I love you and I always will. I’ll find a way to prove it to you.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, John,” Sherlock whispered. “You’ve already broken my heart, don’t crush it under your boot.”

John bent down and touched Sherlock’s arm. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

“Don’t dirty yourself touching me. I’m disgusting, remember?” he whispered.

John shook his head and stood. “I’ll be here whenever you need me.”

Sherlock didn’t respond as John walked away. When he heard the lift engage, Sherlock shuddered and swallowed hard, wiping his eyes furiously. He picked up his mobile and carefully hit the buttons with shaking hands.

“Yes, Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“My, I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything, Little Brother.”

“I want you to tell the security people not to let John into 221B anymore.”

“What?”

“I know about you threatening John and Mary to make John come back. To make him pretend to care. I know about the baby. I never wanted anyone forced to come and see me if they didn’t want to. I understand why you did it, and I’m not angry with you but . . . I never thought John would be the first to abandon me. I . . . I want you to set up university funds for the children and make monthly deposits in John’s account to help. And I don’t want you to threaten them anymore. I want John to be happy. And he’ll be happier without . . . me.”

“Are you sure? I’m sorry that I’ve upset you. I . . .”

“No. I know you wanted me to have John in my life. But it’s too late now.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. Something felt like it broke in my chest last night. This must be what death feels like. I feel empty. Like there’s nothing inside me. Like every part of my body hurts. Like there’s nothing left for me anymore.”

“You’ll always have me, Sherlock. Do you want me to come over?”

“No. No. You’ve missed enough work because of me. I have to get used to this.”

“You have people who care about you. Are you alone?”

“Mrs. Hudson and Sam will be back in a few minutes from the store.”

“Will you tell your friends?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want them to know how pathetic I am. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to you later, My.”

“Be strong, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. “I’ve had to be strong all my life, My. I don’t have any strength left. I’m tired of it. I want someone to look after me. Someone to have time for me. But I know no one wants to be around me because of what I am. I don’t deserve it.”

“You do deserve to have someone with you.”

“I have to go, My.”

“Goodbye, Little Brother.”

Sherlock put his mobile down. He struggled to control his emotions. He knew this heartbreak was all own fault. It was his delusional love for a man who could never, ever love him back. 

He smiled when Mrs. Hudson and Sam came in. He made small talk with Mrs. Hudson as she baked, never letting on that anything was wrong. 

When Dr. Cooper came, Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to discuss John with him. He hoped Mycroft hadn’t called him. He knew he’d have to talk — he’d have to tell everyone why John wasn’t coming around. 

Dr. Cooper gave no indication that he knew. Sherlock was quiet — half-heartedly listening to his psychiatrist.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

“It’s just a bad day,” Sherlock said. “No matter how much mediation or therapy a person has, there are always going to be bad days.”

“There will be, but we do want to minimize them. What triggered this one do you think?”

“Nightmare,” he lied. “I had a bad nightmare about the warehouse. It just made me feel helpless and awful.”

Dr. Cooper seemed to accept that and went on to lecture him about handling nightmares.

By the time the session was over, Sherlock’s head was pounding and he was feeling nauseated. He told Sam about the headache and was given painkillers. Sam helped him to lie down, closed the curtains and the door and left him. 

He closed his eyes, willing his mind to remain blank. His mind flashed to was laying his head on John’s lap with John’s fingers in his hair. And he found it somehow comforted him. He felt so much better even though his head felt like it was splitting in two. His whole life would have to be lived on those small moments when John was kind to him. When he was surrounded by John’s warmth and smell and it made him feel safe and at home.

As the headache continued to deepen, he began to whimper and then moan. He heard Sam come into the room, Mrs. Hudson behind him. He felt a cool cloth across his forehead. Sam was taking his blood pressure. The pain was climbing again. His mind was blank with the pain, and he knew that he’d be unconscious soon. And he hoped more than anything that this headache would take him away from the pain, disappointment, and rejection that was his life. He screamed once before the blackness took him.

 

He was lying on the floor of the warehouse. It was the night after they had mutilated his legs and used a blowtorch to cauterize the wounds. He’d passed out but had woken in absolute and utter pain. He screamed until one of them came back and told him to shut up before he’d spread his legs and raped him. He could feel the blood running between his legs as he laid there trying not to move. They had left him, and he tried to pull himself toward the door. He needed to get out. He pulled along on his elbows, the pressure reopening the welts on his back and opening up the wounds on the front of his legs.

The door opened, and he looked up, his heart soaring. It was John. John had found him.

“John, please,” he whispered. “Help me. Get me out.”

John looked at him seriously. He stood up and moved around him.

“They’ve given you a hard time, haven’t they?” John said. “Whipped your back, crushed and destroyed your legs.” He came around as Sherlock looked back at him. “Raped?” he asked.

Sherlock looked at the floor and nodded.

He felt John’s foot at his side as he pushed him over. Sherlock moaned loudly as he was forced onto his torn back. “Burns, ligature marks on the wrists, broken ribs, bruises. What are the cuts on your chest for?”

“E . . . every time they . . . force me . . .”

“Nineteen times?” John looked at him in disgust. “You’re dirty and disgusting now. I wouldn’t touch you with a rubber gloves.” John turned around.

“John, please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. They’ll kill me.”

John looked at him and coldly said, “I don’t care.”

“John . . . don’t leave! John, don’t go! Come back! Please come back!” Sherlock woke screaming. Brad turned on the light and sat down next to him. 

Sherlock was sobbing and threw himself up into Brad’s arms. “John . . . John, don’t leave me! Don’t go!”

“Sir . . . Sherlock, calm down. It was a nightmare. I was just a nightmare. You’ll be okay. It’ll be fine. Dr. Watson will be here probably later today. Don’t worry.”

“No. No. John’s gone. John’s gone. I won’t see him again,” Sherlock sobbed, his whole body shaking with emotion.

“Want me to get you a sedative? It’ll calm you.”

“My. I want My,” Sherlock sobbed.

“Just give me a second and I’ll call him, okay?”

Sherlock nodded and lay back down, shaking. 

He heard Brad on his mobile. Brad brought him a cup of water and a sedative. “This will help you calm down.” 

“John . . .” he whispered. “John . . .”

It was nearly twenty minutes later when Sherlock heard the lift start. He heard My coming and the tears started again. “My,” he sobbed.

Mycroft came in in a shirt and trousers. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his brother without at least a waistcoat on. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here.”

Sherlock struggled to sit up and held his arms out for his brother. Mycroft sat down and pulled Sherlock to him. Sherlock laid his face on Mycroft’s shoulder. “He’s gone. John’s gone. He left me. I won’t ever see him again. Never again.”

“I know. I know, Sherlock. It’ll be alright. I’m here. I’m here for you.”

“He was all I had. He won’t even be friends with me now because I’m disgusting.”

“You aren’t.”

“But they took me twenty three times, My. I am disgusting and dirty and used. I still have to have another test before I’ll know if I caught anything from them. John doesn’t care, My.” He couldn’t stop crying. Mycroft began rocking him and pulled him closer.

“You aren’t any of those things. You were attacked by men who are going to pay for what they did. It isn’t your fault. No one blames you. No one at all. If anyone treats you badly because of what they did to you, it says more about them then about you. If John Watson doesn’t want to be your friend, he’s not worth caring about.”

Sherlock continued to sob until his head was aching again and his body hurt.

“It hurts, My. It all hurts. Everything. Make it stop. You can do anything, My. Please make it stop,” Sherlock whispered.

“If I could, Little Brother, I would. Here, lay down, alright?”

“Will you lay down with me?”

Mycroft carefully laid Sherlock down. “Brad, would you get my brother a cold drink?”

Mycroft helped Sherlock drink. He got some tissues and wiped Sherlock’s face. He got up and came around, slipping off his shoes and then slipping under the covers.

Sherlock laid his head on Mycroft’s chest as Mycroft wrapped his arms around him. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. I’ll be here for you. I’ll be here always. I’ll do my best to make the pain go away.” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Do you promise, My?”

“I promise.”

He felt his brother start to settle. And as Sherlock fell asleep, Mycroft knew that John Watson would very much regret what he’d put Sherlock through.

 

That afternoon, after Sherlock had thrown him out of 221B, John had felt anger burn in him like never before. He caught a cab and went home. He stood outside his door as the anger boiled in him. He looked at his watch. Rosie would be at her play group for another hour. 

He unlocked the door and stepped through. He hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes. He leaned his head against the wall for just a moment, before he stood up straight, rolled his head, and sniffed.

He stepped through the kitchen door and found Mary sitting at the table sipping tea. “You’re home early,” she said. “Sherlock needed you again?”

“Don’t you fucking sit there and pretend you give a goddamn thing about Sherlock!”

She looked at him, her mouth open. “What’s the matter with you? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t look at me with those innocent eyes. You went over there and told him exactly the things you knew would upset him. You didn’t need to tell him Mycroft threatened us. You didn’t need to say Mycroft told me to pretend to care for him. You didn’t need to tell him about the baby and about us not getting any money from cases anymore. And you fucking certainly didn’t have to tell him that I didn’t want to have sex with him because he was disgusting. I never fucking said that! You might as well have reached in and ripped his heart out. That man — my best friend — is sitting in his flat thinking I don’t care about him anymore. He thinks I don’t want to be around him because of what those fucking bastards did to him. He thinks I’ve abandoned him.

“He told me he wanted me to be happy with you and the children. That’s all he wants: my happiness. He doesn’t want me to force myself to come and see him. He loves me so much he’d rather break his own heart then inconvenience me by asking me to spend a few minutes with him. You did this. You hurt him so badly. He called me at work and asked me to come over. He told me what you said, and asked me to leave and never come back. He never wants to see me again because he thinks I don’t want to be with him anymore.” He was breathing hard as he stared down at his wife. “And . . . you . . . did . . . this. You did this to him and to me.”

“I told him I didn’t mind you seeing him. I told him I had been foolish and jealous but knew you didn’t love him in that way.”

“So you told him I thought he was disgusting?”

“Maybe. I shouldn’t have said that, but . . .”

“You said things you knew would hurt him.”

“I don’t want to hurt Sherlock.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Mary blinked at him. “You think I wanted to hurt him?”

“Yes. He said you looked triumphant talking about the baby. You rubbed his nose in it. Just to hurt him.”

“I didn’t try to hurt him. We owe Sherlock so much. He’s done so much for us.”

“And still you fucking hurt him! Why — tell me for God’s sake, why! What has he done? Is it because he loves me?”

“John, calm down.” Please calm down. I may not have said things like I should have but I didn’t mean to hurt him. Really I didn’t.”

“Again . . . I don’t believe you! You can look as innocent as you want but you were the one who murdered him. You killed Sherlock! And now you’re trying to hurt him when he’s at his most vulnerable. When he can’t control his emotions. I don’t know if he’ll ever trust me again. I don’t know if he’ll ever let me see him again.”

“John, he’ll calm down. Don’t worry. I can go talk to him again. I’ll apologize for him that he misunderstood me. You know Sherlock has low self-esteem. You know he thinks he doesn’t deserve friends. You know he’s unstable right now. He’s taken things out of context. I’ll smooth it all over, and he’ll apologize to you for hurting your feelings.”

“No. I don’t want you seeing him. I had to lie to him last time and tell him that he’d misunderstood — that I just didn’t want to cause a scene and that I was always going to come back. I will never forgive you for this. Never.”

“So once more, it’s Sherlock over me. Once more.”

“Don’t pull that shit on me again. I’ve chosen you over him time and again. After we got married, I abandoned him for a month. I came back to you after you killed him. He convinced me to. I’ve missed cases because you wanted me to stay here. What the hell more do you want? Do you want me to cut him out of my life for good?”

“Of course not, John. Of course not. He was the best man at our wedding. He’s our friend. He’s Rosie’s godfather. And he’ll be godfather to our new baby. I know he needs you. Yes, sometimes it’s a bit hard knowing that he wants you to have sex with him. But I know you don’t want that. So it’s alright.”

“He loves me and you can’t stand it. I’ve told you over and over there’s nothing between us sexually.”

“I know, John. I know I was being a jealous fool. Please don’t be angry.”

“I have every fucking right to be angry.”

“Maybe you do, but Rosie will be home soon. We can’t be fighting in front of her, and it’s not good for the baby.”

He looked at her, knowing she was right. He felt nothing but anger. “Of course you’d use our children against me.”

“Never. I’m just stating the obvious. It’s okay, John. Just calm down.”

“I can’t be here with you.” He started out the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to get away from you for awhile.”

“Don’t go, John,” she said, standing up, touching his arm.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, pulling his arm away.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know.”

John slipped his shoes and coat on and slammed the door. He wanted to call Greg but if he told Greg what had happened, he knew Greg would side with Sherlock — and rightfully so. He went to the nearest pub and ordered a beer, the first of many that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this week off work so I've been able to post two chapters. So, updates may take a bit longer once I go back to work. But updates are coming. Hope you enjoy the story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected delivery and unexpected news drive Sherlock to the very edge. Will Mycroft, Greg, and John be able to save him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated mature for content and language. Pay attention to the warnings.

When Sherlock woke in the morning, he was being held, his face on someone’s chest. “John?” he whispered.

“It’s me, Little Brother,” Mycroft said. “Are you alright?”

“Thank you for staying with me, My. I’m sorry you had to come in the middle of the night.”

“You needed me, Sherlock. I’ll always come when you need me. How are you feeling this morning?”

“My head still hurts a little. I . . . I just feel sad, My. I . . . I just want to see my John again. I want to see him smile at me. I want him to rub his fingers through my hair. Why doesn’t he want to be my friend anymore, My? What did I do?”

“Nothing. You didn’t do anything?”

Sherlock sighed.

“How about we get you up?”

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to get up. I just want to lay here.”

“You can’t just lay here, Sherlock. You have to go on. You have your other friends. You have your books and your music.”

“I want my cases and my violin.”

“I know you do. Please, Sherlock.”

“If you want me to.”

Mycroft got up and went to get Sam to get Sherlock ready for the day.

Sherlock looked so unhappy when he came out. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were sitting at the table. 

“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Are you alright? Let me make you some breakfast.”

Sherlock sat looking at his hands. “I’ll be alright,” he whispered. “I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat,” Mycroft said, touching his arm.

“Not hungry. Can I have some orange juice with my medication?” he whispered.

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson got up and got him a large glass of juice. 

Sherlock was embarrassed and ashamed. He didn’t want to tell Mrs. Hudson what was wrong, but he knew he’d have to. “I’m sorry if I woke you last night. I . . . I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We just need to know that you’re okay.”

“No. John . . . John won’t be coming back,” Sherlock whispered. 

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hudson said, squeezing his arm. “We’re here for you. I know we’re not the same as John, but we’ll do what we can for you.”

“I’m sorry I act like this. I’m sorry it upsets me so much. I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“We’re not angry. We want to help you. Are you sure about John? I can’t imagine he’d hurt you like this,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock continued to look at his hands, his face turning red.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I can stay with you today. I’ve had Anthea clear my schedule.”

“It’s okay, My. You’re busy. You have an important job. Mrs. Hudson can keep me company.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

Sherlock looked up, his eye sad and haunted. “Please don’t waste your valuable time with me.”

“It’s not a waste of time. You’re not a waste of time.”

“Go to work, My. The government needs to be at work.”

“Maybe for awhile. I’ll come back later, alright?”

“If you want to.”

“Shall I bring you something?”

“No. I’m alright.”

Mycroft gestured to Mrs. Hudson.

“I’m just going to pop down and bring up some of that special tea you like,” she told Sherlock.

When they went down in the lift, Mycroft asked her to call him if Sherlock got any worse.

“What happened, Mycroft? What did John do?”

“It was Mary. She came here telling Sherlock things she shouldn’t have.”

“Mary? After that night they were here for dinner, I’m not surprised. There was something off with her.”

“She’s jealous of Sherlock because he loves John.”

“But to hurt him like this.”

“Believe me. I’ll be asking questions of both of them.”

“That poor man. He’s been so hurt. He needs all of us. I can’t believe you parents won’t come to see him.”

“If I mention it to them, he’ll think I spoke to them, and he doesn’t want anyone to feel like they have to come and visit. I wish I could fix all of this. He’s so unhappy, and I feel so helpless. It’s not a feeling I’m used to.”

“I’ll call you if anything happens. I’ll try and get him to eat.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mycroft went into the office, showered, changed, and got down to business, Sherlock never far from his thoughts.

At two in the afternoon, Mycroft had settled negotiations on two treaties, drafted two government bills, and dressed down a junior minister. He had Anthea send men to pick up John before he left for the Diogenes Club.

Half an hour later, two of his men, each holding one of his arms, pulled John into Mycroft’s office and threw him into a chair.

“Mycroft, how dare you? Your goons pulled me out of my office. I was with a patient.”

“By the look of you, you’re quite hung-over. Probably saved you a lawsuit.”

“What do you want?”

“What do you think I want, John?” Mycroft asked. The cold smile on his face made John shiver. “You hurt my brother, yet again. He woke up screaming for you not to leave him last night. Brad called me. I had to sleep with my brother in my arms to calm him.”

John’s face paled.

“He thinks you don’t want to be with him. He asked me to tell my security personnel not to let you in. He wouldn’t eat this morning. He wouldn’t talk above a whisper. I offered to stay with him, but he thinks if he asks people to stay with him, they’ll get tired of him and leave. That damnable woman you married is behind this. I won’t put up with this. Sherlock made me promise not to claim any payback for this. But I will not let it pass.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, Mycroft. I don’t. I love Sherlock. You know that.”

“I know you think you do, but you seem to always say that. My brother has sacrificed and sacrificed for you. You’re the only one he’s ever loved — though I can’t see why. He won’t ask you to love him because he thinks he’s not good enough for you. I feel it’s much more the other way around.” Mycroft stared at him coldly.

John looked away, guilt obvious on his face.

Mycroft gave him a dirty look. “You also need to know that your wife will not be allowed to interact with him again.”

“I told her the same thing. She’s not to come near him. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I need to see him. I need to explain.”

“I don’t know if he’s in a place to listen to you right now. But, at the same time, he’s so broken. I think he’ll speak to you, but I’ll have to convince him. And if you hurt him again, John Watson, it doesn’t matter what Sherlock wants, you will pay. It’s only because I think he truly needs you that I’ll consider this.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you so much.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for him. I’ll call you when I’ve talked to him. This is against my better judgement, but he needs you for some inexplicable reason, and I won’t deny him anything. Now get out.”

When Mycroft got to Sherlock’s flat, he found his brother sitting in his wheelchair at the table staring at his fingers. A cup of cold tea sat in front of him.

Mycroft looked at Mrs. Hudson. He mimed eating. She shook her head.

“Hello, Brother Dear,” Mycroft said as he took hold of Sherlock’s wheelchair and wheeled him towards his room. He closed the door and sat on the bed looking at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, please look at me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to Mycroft’s for a second and then back to his hands.

“I know that you’re in incredible pain. But you need to take care of yourself. You need to eat. Listen, I talked to John today.”

Sherlock looked up. “Did you threaten him to make him come back?”

“No. He wants to come back to see you. He came to see me and begged me to help. He wants to be with you. I was wrong. He didn’t have to pretend to care. He’d had a huge fight with his wife. He hated what she’d told you. He hated that she’d made you doubt him. He loves you, Sherlock.”

“But he said . . .”

“Yes, she repeated what she shouldn’t have.” 

“He thought I was disgusting.”

“Given the source, I don’t know that I’d believe that. Sherlock, you know how I feel about sentiment — though I find myself very sentimental over my little brother — but you and John need each other. It confounds me, but it seems to be true. You are better with him then you’ve ever been alone. Truth be told, I’ve been . . . well . . . I suppose a bit jealous that you tell him things that you once would have told me. That he’s the first one you want to see. And I know that the reason we aren’t as close as we were when we were very young is because of me. I was too proud once I went away to school. I thought I was too old and too important for my little brother. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course, My.” Sherlock smiled at Mycroft.

“Then let me call John. Le me ask him to come and see you. Do this for me?”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft smiled. “Now, shall we get you something to eat?”

After Sherlock had eaten lunch and both he and Mycroft had had a piece of Mrs. Hudson’s strawberry pie, Mycroft called John and asked him to come over, even sending one of his cars.

When John arrived, everyone else went down to Mrs. Hudson’s to give them some privacy.

“Well . . .,” Sherlock said.

“Well . . . I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry for what Mary said. I’m so sorry she hurt you so badly that she made you doubt me. I understand why you believed her, I do. And I’m sorry.”

“Oh, John. I shouldn’t have believed her. She just . . . well, she seemed to know exactly what to say to tear at my heart and trigger all my insecurities. My was right. He said I was better with you in my life.”

John smiled at him. “And I need you in my life.” He reached out and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “Ever since that day at Bart’s. I knew you were going to always be a part of my life. Please know that nothing will ever make me leave you. I know Mary is trying her damnest, but I won’t let her. If I wasn’t afraid she’d leave with Rosie and the baby, I’d consider leaving. She’s hurt you too much.”

“If you don’t want to be with her anymore, you shouldn’t be. But I understand. She knows how to disappear.”

“I have to stay until the baby’s born at least. I can’t lose my children. If she’ll do this to you, what will she do to them if left on her own? She’s never done anything that I noticed, but she’s killed people. I . . . I care about her, Sherlock, but I can’t trust her.” 

“If you care about her then . . .”

“I can’t trust her.”

“I’ll be here for you.”

John smiled. “I know you will. I’m . . . I’m so happy that you’ve forgiven me.” John’s voice broke on the last word.

Sherlock smiled at John. He opened his arms and John hugged him. “Oh, John.”

John now knew what Sherlock meant. Having Sherlock hold him made him feel safe and warm and loved and at home. He felt loved when Mary held him, but it was nothing like this. Why had he been so afraid? Letting Sherlock love him felt so good, felt so right.

They talked for awhile, laughing and joking. 

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson came back up the lift. Mycroft stood at the door. Seeing his brother so happy made him smile. And the look on John’s face was a happy one as well. The two of them really did need each other. He went back into the sitting room. “It appears all fences have been mended,” he told Mrs. Hudson. 

“Good,” Mrs. Hudson said smiling. “Shall I make us some tea?”

“I should really get back to work.”

“Nonsense. You’re looking positively skinny, Mycroft. How about a nice big piece of that strawberry pie?”

He smiled at her. “Maybe just one.”

Dr. Cooper came later in the afternoon. John sat in the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson fussed over him and got him tea and a piece of pie. 

She sat down opposite him. “So things are okay with you and Sherlock?”

John nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed. “Yes, I think so.”

She fixed him with hard look. “If you ever hurt him like that again, John, either you or Mary, you’ll have to answer to me. I won’t see that poor boy hurt anymore. Do you understand me?”

John gulped. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. Now eat your pie.” She stood up and started cleaning the kitchen.

When Sherlock came out of his bedroom, he seemed so happy. He smiled and joked and couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of John.

John stayed for dinner but said he needed to get home to see Rosie. Mrs. Hudson finished the dishes and told Sherlock she’d promised to call her sister and would see him in the morning.

 

Over the next few weeks, things settled into a routine. Sherlock got up around nine in the morning and got ready for the day. He and Mrs. Hudson and Sam would watch telly or play games and listen to music. Mycroft would call at noon to check on Sherlock and see if he needed anything. John would come by and often have dinner or sometimes he’d come after dinner. Greg started to visit more often and one night brought Molly.

Molly apologized for not visiting so often. She hadn’t wanted to bother Sherlock while he was still recovering. He held his arms open and gave her a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek and told her she could never bother him. She smiled her shy smile.

Everything seemed like it was going well. Dr. Cooper was pleased with Sherlock’s progress. Sherlock even talked to John about maybe going outside — to a movie or to a restaurant. They talked about the pros and cons and about what would happen with this or that scenario.

John told Sherlock he had reached a sort of détente with Mary. She said nothing about John’s time with Sherlock, and he didn’t mention what she’d done to him. They were getting along alright. But Sherlock knew John really didn’t want to talk about it, and he respected his wishes, sure he’d tell him if there was something he could do to help.

Sherlock began ordering many more books and movies to fill the days. He even started buying movies that he knew only John would like so they could watch something together.

Two days later, a pile of boxes came in the mail. Sam brought them upstairs and helped Sherlock open them. The last box wasn’t from the company he’d ordered from. Sam used a box cutter to open it. Sherlock opened the top of the box. There was a note. Sam unfolded it for him.

“Thought you might have missed them,” the note read. There was no signature — Sherlock didn’t recognize the writing. There was red velvet on top of the package. He pulled it away and stared.

Sam gasped. Mrs. Hudson looked up from the sofa. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? You’re positively white.”

Sherlock was shaking. 

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Hudson moved over to him and screamed when she saw what was in the box.

“Mine. They’re mine. They’re back,” he whispered. He was staring hard into the box. Nestled in the red velvet were his five missing fingers.

He wasn’t paying attention as Mrs. Hudson frantically called Mycroft and John.

Sherlock reached out with a shaking hand and touched his severed fingers. He turned one over. The callus was still there from playing the violin.

“Please, Sherlock. Please put those down,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Mine. They’re mine,” he whispered over and over, mesmerized.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when the lift engaged, and Mycroft and John hurried into the room. 

Sherlock glanced up at them, smiling with tears of happiness on his face.

“My? John? They’re back. Look. They sent them back.”

John moved to one side and bent down. “Can I have them, Sherlock?”

“No. They’re mine,” he said, clutching the box to his chest. “My, we’ll go to the hospital, okay? We can get them put back on, okay?” The look of hope on his face was heartbreaking. Sherlock looked at them. “See,” he said, holding them out for John to see. “They must have kept them frozen. They’re fine. They’re fine. They can sew them back on, and I can play my violin again. My, you can bring my violin home, okay?” Tears were pouring down Sherlock’s face, but he was smiling. “My violin. I’ve missed it so much.” He looked down at his fingers, reaching out to touch them again.

“Little Brother,” Mycroft said, his face pale. “Can you let me have them?”

“Why? You can’t have them. They’re mine. Can we go now? You can get the best surgeon in London to reattach them, okay, My? Please.”

Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, it’s too late. I’m afraid it’s much too late to reattach them.”

“No, My. See, look, they’re okay.”

“Yes, they are,” John said, “But it’s too late. Severed fingers have to be reattached within twelve hours.”

“No, John. See look. They’re fine. Please. Please, John. Please put them back. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. My, please anything you want. Please. Please.” Sherlock was crying heavily, his whole body shaking. “I want to play my violin again. Please let me.” He looked at John and reached out to touch his hand. “Please, John.”

John’s eyes were filled with tears as they began to drip down his face. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly, truly am. I would give anything to be able to do it for you.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. Tears were running down his face too. Mrs. Hudson was weeping. Sherlock clutched the box to his chest as his breath came harsh and quick.

“Calm down. Please calm down,” John said.

He looked down at his mutilated hands. “No one can do it? No one?” he asked, looking at John, his eyes pleading.

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Why would they send them back? Why, John? Was it just to hurt me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Sherlock. They’ll pay for this. I’ll kill them myself.”

“Take me to my room,” he whispered.

John wheeled him to his room and sat him on his bed as he asked, “Please let me have the box, Sherlock. Mycroft can use it to try and get clues about who sent it.”

With a sob, Sherlock took one last look at his fingers and gave the box to John.

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No. I want to be alone. Please.”

“Just for a little bit, Sherlock. You shouldn’t be alone.”

John closed the door. Sherlock slipped off of the bed and landed heavily on the floor. He pulled himself slowly towards the door. He reached up. It took all he had to reach the door handle and four tries to lock the door.

He sobbed and sobbed. His last hope was gone. His last hope of any independence, of having part of his life back. It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. A whole life of this. A whole life of nothing. Of people making time for him. Of ending up living in an institution. 

He wrapped his remaining fingers in his hair and pulled before he began to bang the back of his head against the door. Pain blossomed, but it was a better pain then the pain that was threatening to completely overwhelm him. The breath was coming faster and faster as he sucked in air. He started to scream, unable to keep the pain inside anymore. He hit his head again and again as John and Mycroft tried to get in.

He screamed until there was no voice left to scream with and still his mouth was open trying desperately to make the noise. He dimly heard them pounding on the door as he hit his head once more. The pain was too much, and he slumped over against the wall.

“Sherlock! Let me in!” John yelled.

He heard the door frame splinter as John, Mycroft, and Sam forced the door open. John squeezed through and dropped to the floor. He gently moved Sherlock aside as Sam and Mycroft squeezed through. 

“Get me the med kit!” John yelled. “I need a towel.”

Sherlock couldn’t see anymore. He was blinded by tears and pain.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Can you move? Move your hands for me, okay?”

Sherlock felt his hands twitch. 

“Is he alright?” Mycroft asked as he held Sherlock’s hand.

“We’re going to need an ambulance,” John said. “With his skull fractures, we’ve got to check. He may have cracked his skull. There could be internal bleeding.”

Mycroft called for the ambulance as John and Sam straightened Sherlock out, careful to keep his neck as still as possible.

“Do we have a collar?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sam went for it.

“Sherlock, I’m here,” John said. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We’re going to take you to the hospital just to get you checked out. We’ll get you a nice, long rest, okay? It’ll just be until we know you’re okay. Then we’ll come right home. I promise.”

Sherlock dimly heard him as he started to pass out.

 

When he woke up, Sherlock knew before he opened his eyes that he was in the hospital. The lights were too bright and he squinted.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I’ll close the blinds,” Mycroft said.

“Thirsty?” John asked.

Sherlock’s throat hurt. He nodded but even that slight movement sent a stab of pain through his head. 

“Be careful. You’ve got a skull fracture. It’s not big, and there’s no internal bleeding, but they want to keep you here for observation.” He held out the cup with a straw, and Sherlock took a deep drink.

“They think I’m suicidal, don’t they?” he croaked. “They’re going to keep me here for good, aren’t they?”

“No. No. I won’t allow it. You were upset, Sherlock. I daresay if that had happened to me, I’d have done the same,” Mycroft said.

“Why? Why would they do that to me?” Sherlock asked. “Haven’t they hurt me enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“I . . . I can’t do this anymore,” Sherlock whispered. “I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t live with the pain anymore, My. Please. It’s time. It’s time to let me go. Please let me have some peace.” He clutched his brother’s hand. “Please, My. They’ve taken everything from me. Let me go before they take my sanity too.”

“No, Little Brother. You can’t ask me to do that.”

“You promised me, Sherlock. You promised me you’d live,” John said.

“I promised I wouldn’t kill myself, but let someone else do it. Send one of your men, My. Please. If after you die, there’s nothing then I’ll have peace. There won’t be any more pain. And if there is another world, then I can go there and be at the two times when I was the very happiest. I can run through the fields with Redbeard playing pirates. And I’ll wait for you, My. I’ll wait and you can come with me and play pirates too.

“And I can run through London chasing bad guys with you, John. And we can laugh and eat takeaway. And I’ll wait for you, too, John. We can be together. Please. Please let me have that. Let me have that. Redbeard will keep me company until you’re ready to come. I’ll watch over you, look after you both, I promise.

“Please. There’s already a tombstone in the cemetery. Please let my poor, broken body lay beneath it.” 

John and Mycroft were both crying.

“I know I’m asking a lot. Please. Do this for me. Do it for me. Help me.”

“This wouldn’t be helping you,” Mycroft said. “This is running away.”

“Then let me run away, My. It hurts. It hurts so bad. I cannot live like this. Not with them torturing me again and again.”

“Sherlock, you can’t ask us that. Please try to be strong. Just for awhile longer.”

“I’ve no strength left, John. I can’t be strong anymore. My mind is disintegrating. I can feel it. Don’t make me lose whatever I have left and end up back in the institution, sitting looking out the window and drooling. They’re destroying the last parts of me.”

John touched Sherlock’s face. “I won’t let them have you, Sherlock. I won’t let them take you away from me, not when I finally have you back. Let me fight for you, Sherlock. Let me fight to save you from them. Let me, Sherlock.”

“John, you can’t . . .”

“I can. I love you. I won’t let them have you. I won’t let them destroy you.”

“Neither will I,” Mycroft said. “I’ve tracked them. One’s in Moscow, another in North Korea, one’s in China, another in Serbia, and the last one’s in the Democratic Republic of Congo. My men are working around the clock to capture them. They won’t be able to hurt you. Not anymore.” 

“But someone’s behind it, My. Someone picked out these five men and got them out. They were in different prisons. I don’t think they could have coordinated this themselves.” 

“We’ll question them. We’ll make sure they talk. We’ll find this person, and they will thoroughly regret what they’ve done to you before they die.” The hard look in Mycroft’s eyes was enough to make Sherlock shudder.

“We will protect you, Sherlock. You protected us and kept us safe for so long. Now it’s our turn to take care of you,” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“What . . . what did you do with my fingers?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m having the package and everything tested,” Mycroft said.

“Will you . . . will you bury them for me? I don’t want them thrown out like medical garbage. Will you bury them at my grave?”

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock’s other hand. “Of course, I will.”

“I . . . I really wanted . . . I was so excited to think I might be able to play my . . . my violin again,” he whispered.

“I know you were. If I thought it would work, I’d give you my hands, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“No. You need them. And I . . . I’ll keep the violin. Maybe . . . maybe someday Rosie or the baby will want to play. They can have it.”

John smiled at Sherlock. “Maybe. But you never know. It’s not too late. Maybe someday you’ll have a child of your own.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Impossible, John. Can you imagine me as a father? No one would want to have a child with me. And I can’t adopt. I can’t even look after myself. It would be raised by nannies. No. The Holmes line ends with Mycroft and me. I’d always thought maybe someday. But they’ve taken that from me too.”

“Please don’t give up on everything. I’m sure that you’d be a great father.”

“Can you imagine having to go to meet with a teacher or them bringing their friends home? I’d scare any child that walks through the door. They’d be embarrassed by and ashamed of me. No, it’s better my flawed genes end with me.” Sherlock looked up at John. “Can you ask if I can have something? My head really hurts.”

“Alright.”

When they were alone, Sherlock grasped Mycroft’s hand tightly. “My, please think about it. I know John will never agree, but I can’t live like this anymore. You can make it look like something natural. There are drugs that would be undetectable in an autopsy. Please, My.”

“Sherlock, I can’t. You can’t ask me to murder you.”

“It wouldn’t be murder though. I want this. I want it so much. Just to be at peace, just so I can get away from the pain. I meant it. I’ll wait for you, My. We can play together and be as close as we were then. I can sort of remember all of it. You’d chase me, pretending to be the British Navy out to capture that rogue Blackbeard. You were an Admiral I think. And you’d be knighted if you brought Blackbeard back. And we’d have our wooden swords. And we’d play until Mummy called us in for dinner. And we’d say she was serving us grog with dinner, and call her the bar wench.”

“Only once,” Mycroft said. “I believe I was sent to my room after dinner for that.”

Sherlock smiled. “If the afterlife is real, My, we can do that again. You and me.”

“But what if it’s not? What if there’s nothing? What if you go and I never see you again, Sherlock? I don’t think I could bear it. You’re the most important person in my life, Little Brother. And I can’t be without you. I can’t take your life. Please try and live. Please try.”

“But I don’t want to. I can’t make myself want to live anymore. All my money is to go to John. I want him to not have to worry about having to work. He can stay home and watch his kids grow up. They can get a nice, big house in the country. His kids can go to the best schools and universities and become whatever they want. I want Mrs. Hudson to not have to worry about her old age. I want you to help Greg get further up in the ranks at the Met, and I want to leave Molly some money for a nice place in the city.”

“You’re always looking after everyone, aren’t you?”

“Please let me do this for them. If I continue like this, there won’t be any money left. And I want them taken care of, My.”

“You don’t have to die to take care of them.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to you. I’ve been a burden all my life. I want you to be free of me. I want you to be able to live your life. It’s not enough to just rule England. Who knows, you could be running the world soon. And you don’t need me as a distraction. Just like John doesn’t need me taking him away from his family.”

“There’s no point continuing this, Sherlock. I will never agree to it.”

“If you did love me, like you said you did, you wouldn’t want me living in pain.”

“We’ll find something for it. It’s only been a short while. You’re doing so well with your therapy. John’s back in your life and won’t be leaving. Things are looking better.”

“Until they drive me out of my mind. It won’t take much more.”

“I’ll have them in custody soon.”

John entered the room with a nurse, who injected a needle in his IV.

“This should take care of the pain, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

John looked at Mycroft and Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

“We were just discussing . . . things,” Mycroft said.

“Sherlock, just stop it. None of us will help you . . . do that. You mean too much to us.”

“Too much? You want me to live in pain. You want me to suffer. What kind of caring is that?”

John took his hand. “We don’t want you to suffer.”

“But I am. Every day. They destroyed me — body, mind, heart, and soul. There are only fragments of Sherlock Holmes left. Not enough left to bother with. And every day it seems like there’s less. I don’t want to lose anything else. Can’t you understand? Soon, I’ll be gone. Completely gone.”

John sat down beside him. “No. We won’t let you go. You are Sherlock Holmes. You’re the man we all care about.” 

“I want to go to sleep, John. I’m tired and I hurt and I’m . . . I just don’t want to argue anymore. No one cares what I want. All you care about is yourselves. Just let me sleep. It’s the only peace I can have.”

John sighed. “I’ll ask if you have a sedative.”

Mycroft tried to talk to him, but Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft reached out and touched his brother’s face.

“You are loved. So loved. We just want the best for you. That’s all we want. I know you’re in pain. And you feel helpless and powerless. And I know you hate it. And you’re tired of being strong. But there will be good days, good hours, even good moments that you don’t want to miss. Falling asleep in John’s arms, listening to good music, reading a good book, talking with your friends. You have to build on those moments.”

“They aren’t enough. They’re just moments.”

John returned with the doctor. “I understand you’d like some sleep, Mr. Holmes?”

“Please. I’m so tired, but I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares.”

“We can get you something.” The doctor returned and injected something into his IV.

John held his hand as he slowly fell asleep. Only when he was sure that Sherlock was unconscious did he let the tears come. He put his other hand on his face and began to sob. He felt Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder. He looked around and was surprised to see tears on Mycroft’s face as well and, before he knew it, he was holding Mycroft as they both cried.

When John had calmed down, he raised his hand from Mycroft’s shoulder. “I just don’t know what to do anymore, Mycroft. He’s so . . . broken. Every part of him needs fixed. I feel so helpless. The best man I’ve ever known was lying there begging us to kill him. How does a person live with that?”

“Once those animals are dealt with, I think that will help. It upsets me that I haven’t been able to secure them yet. Once I do, they’ll be thrown in small cells in the middle of nowhere and what they did to my brother will be a picnic compared to what I do to them. And whoever ordered this, whoever arranged this is going to die an even slower and more painful death.”

John shivered at the loathing in Mycroft’s eyes.

“At least you know what countries they’re in.”

“Some of the most difficult countries to infiltrate. And I’m sure they were well paid. I imagine they have bodyguards. I’m going to double my network, send out the maximum amount of agents. I have mercenary contacts in all of those countries. I want them in custody within a week, if possible. At least one or two of them. I will not rest until they are captured.”

“Mycroft, you can’t put that much pressure on yourself.”

“Sherlock will not be able to rest until they aren’t a threat to him anymore. Until I can tell him who arranged this and why. Even Moriarty wouldn’t do this.”

“No. He’d claim credit for it. He wouldn’t risk the game being over before he wanted it to be.”

“This is someone who has a reason, or at least thinks he or she has a reason, to despise Sherlock. There are many, many people he’s put in prison but to put this together? It would take a lot of money, a lot of connections. I’d say Magnusson but, well, we know it’s not him.” Mycroft glanced down at his brother. “I’m planning to spend the night. Are you?”

“I think I should. I’m going to call Mary and let her know.”

“I’ll arrange for dinner. I need Anthea to come in and I’ll get everything in motion.”

John stepped into the hallway and called Mary. He quickly filled her in on what had happened since Sherlock woke up. 

“Oh my God, oh John. It’s so . . . horrible. Who’s doing this?” He could hear the tears in Mary’s voice.

“The bastards who took him. Mycroft’s men are closing in. He’s sending more and more people into the field. He’s sure he’ll have them soon.”

“That’s good.” 

“I’m going to spend the night. Sherlock . . . he’s . . . he begged Mycroft and me to . . . to kill him.”

“Oh John. Yes, of course. You need to be there.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Kiss Rosie good night for me.”

“I will. Good night.”

John found Mycroft texting Anthea when he came back. She showed up half an hour later with several waiters. While they ate, Mycroft dictated his orders for the search. Sherlock stirred a few times during the evening. John and Mycroft talked quietly. 

“He fights so hard for all of us, but his biggest struggles he has to face alone. It’s not fair,” John said.

“He loves deeply, and he’s loyal to an absolute fault. People think him cold-hearted and a sociopath, but he cares more than anyone about his friends. You, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Gregory, and I. He even keeps our parents at somewhat of a distance. He loves them and would do anything for them but not to the extent he would for us. I believe he considers Mrs. Hudson and Gregory more his parents. We’re the only ones privileged to know the real Sherlock.”

“It’s quite something to be loved by him.”

“You would know. You’re the one he loves the most.”

John looked at Sherlock — a feeling of guilt washing over him again.

“Stop feeling guilty, it’s annoying,” Mycroft said, not looking up from his laptop.

John barked a laugh. “You sound just like him.”

“John, he loves you. It’s just that simple. He will pine the rest of his life over you, snatching the moments you deign to give him and clutching them to his poor, broken heart as tightly as he can. He deserves to be loved completely and fully. He deserves to go to sleep every night in the arms of the person he loves. He deserves to be told ‘I love you’ every day. He deserves to be cherished. You are a lucky man, John Watson. For you have the heart of Sherlock Holmes, wholly, completely, and forever. Do you know what a blessing that is? And if you ever hurt him again . . . I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

John had never heard Mycroft wax poetic before. And he knew every word was true. He’d taken so much from Sherlock. And he felt like he’d given nothing back.

John nodded off around midnight. Something woke him a few hours later.

“Noooo,” a low voice, whispered.

John looked across at Mycroft, who was sleeping, his head leaning against his hand. 

“Please. Not my fingers . . . don’t take them. Please,” Sherlock whimpered. He screamed in pain.

Mycroft came to his feet, his laptop clattering to the floor.

John sat down on the bed. “Sherlock, wake up.”

Sherlock screamed again. “No! No more! Please! Not my left hand, please!”

“Sherlock wake up! It’s a nightmare. You’re safe. You’re safe. With me and your brother. Please wake up.”

“Wake up, Little Brother.”

With one last blood-curdling scream, Sherlock woke clutching his hands to his chest. 

“My fingers,” he sobbed. “They took my fingers. They took them.”

A nurse rushed into his room. “What’s going on?”

“A nightmare. We’re trying to calm him down,” Mycroft said. The monitors were screaming. 

“Calm down, Sherlock. You’ve got to calm down,” John said. “Breathe slowly.”

Sherlock’s frightened eye turned to John. He finally seemed to see him. “John, they took my fingers! They cut them off! They’re bleeding! Get them back from them, please! Sew them back on. Save them, John. Please!”

“Sherlock, it’s alright. You had a nightmare. That happened months ago. You’re not bleeding.” John reached out and pried his hands from his chest, careful not to hurt him. “Look, see. They aren’t bleeding.”

Sherlock shook his head as realization dawned on his face. He weakly pulled his hands away. His face went incredibly pale as his Adam’s apple worked up and down.

John turned him on his side, right before he vomited. He retched and retched for long minutes. The nurse brought a basin for him to vomit into. When he was done, his face was drawn with pain and his eyes clenched. Sherlock moaned.

“We need some pain medication,” John told the nurse. She went for it. By the time she came back, Sherlock was moaning. His fingers were clenched to the side of his head, tears squeezing out of his eyes. 

The nurse injected the powerful painkiller. His heartbeat and breathing slowed though he still moaned. The nurse went to get a few orderlies. John and Mycroft left the room while the orderlies cleaned the floor and Sherlock.

When they came back in, Sherlock was curled on his side, his hands clenched to his chest again.

“Go home,” he whispered. “Go home and get some sleep.” His voice was wobbly.

“No,” John said. “You need us. You need both of us. And we aren’t going anywhere.”

“Please make it stop hurting, John. Please make them stop hurting me.”

“The painkillers should help.”

“We’re close, Little Brother. I’ll have those men as soon as possible. I’m taking extraordinary measures.”

“We have you, Sherlock. We have you. You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with us,” John said.

Sherlock looked up at him and in a voice that reminded John of a meek boy, he asked, “You promise?”

“Of course we do,” Mycroft said, touching Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Never, ever? You won’t let them ever hurt me again?”

“No. I promise.”

John helped ease him back onto his back. Each of them took one of his hands.

“Can . . . can I have a drink?” he asked in a small voice.

Mycroft gave him a drink of water.

“My, could you rub my forehead like you used to when I was sick and tell me a story?”

Mycroft looked worriedly at John. “Of course I can.”

Mycroft started to softly rub Sherlock’s forehead and told him a story about Blackbeard and the Admiral. Sherlock soon fell asleep again.

“John,” Mycroft said.

“I know. He’s close, Mycroft. He’s close to losing his mind. He can’t take much more.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Who the hell is behind this? Who knows him so well that they know exactly what to do to drive him out of his mind?”

“I wish I knew. I wish to God I knew. We have to keep him from any news, from anyone telling him anything. He needs to see Dr. Cooper as much as possible.”

“I’ll speak to the staff. I think it’s important we keep him here, though. We can’t move him back to the psychiatric hospital or he’ll panic.”

“Definitely. We can’t even move him to the psychiatric wing here.”

“He needs to be handled with kid gloves until he’s a bit stronger.” 

Mycroft reached out to push hair off of Sherlock’s forehead. 

 

Over the next few days, Sherlock slowly recovered. Dr. Cooper spent hours with him, talking, giving Sherlock more tools to deal with the trauma, the memories, the utter hopelessness that he felt. He upped Sherlock’s meds a bit and made sure the pain meds were a higher dosage.

Sherlock felt better. He was calm. At night, he slept, the nightmares waking him occasionally. But he was never alone. Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, and even Anderson and Wiggins sat at his side, held his hand when he wanted, read to him, talked and joked with him. Mary had offered to come too, but John thought her presence might trigger something bad. Sherlock slowly began to smile, even laugh. He told John and Mycroft that he wanted to go home. 

Sherlock indeed returned home a few days later.

Mycroft told John that one of the men had been apprehended at an airport in Hong Kong. “And the others?” John asked.

“They seem to be on the move. They’ve been spotted at airports. We’ll have people meeting them at their destinations.”

John smiled but then frowned. “How would they all know to run now?”

“I’ve uncovered a mole in my organization, unfortunately,” Mycroft said. “We traced him sending warnings to all five. This person is in custody and will be questioned. It’s almost over, John. They will be here within the day. All six will be taken somewhere only I and a select few will know. We’ll find the main perpetrator soon.”

“And I’ll be there as well, correct?”

“Yes. Of course. Gregory also wants to be there.”

“Are you going to tell Sherlock?”

“I don’t know if I should. When they’re actually in the place I have in mind, I will. I don’t want him to be disappointed in case anything goes wrong.”

John nodded. 

Sherlock smiled at them as they came in. “What are you two whispering about?”

“None of your business,” John said, smiling. “Though it may involve a welcome home cake.”

Sherlock smiled. “Ah, should have known, if it involves cake, Mycroft would have to be involved.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t tease your brother,” John said.

“Sorry, My,” Sherlock looked quite chagrined. 

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said, looking a bit worried about Sherlock’s quick apology.

Sherlock smiled up at Mycroft. “Can it be chocolate?” he asked John.

“Whatever you want.”

“Can we have takeaway for dinner? Chinese takeaway from the place down the street?”

“Alright.”

Sherlock smiled widely. “Sam, can you give me a bath? I hate smelling like the hospital.”

When Sherlock was in the bath, Mycroft turned to John. “I don’t like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s acting like a child. I don’t mean petulant but literally like a child. I expected him to clap his hands together when you said he could have chocolate cake.”

“I think it’s a coping mechanism, Mycroft. You heard him at the hospital when he begged us to . . . kill him. The two happiest times of his life where when he was a child, before he went to school, and when he and I were on cases. Dr. Cooper’s been giving him ways to cope. Maybe this is one of those ways.”

“It’s not healthy, John.”

“I know, I know. But he’s going through so much right now. He seems happier, more relaxed, the nightmares aren’t as bad and he doesn’t seem to be in as much pain. I think it’ll be okay until we have the ringleader in custody, and we know absolutely that he’s safe and that it’s over. Then Dr. Cooper can help him with it. Don’t worry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft, John, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and Brad had a late dinner of takeaway and chocolate cake. Sherlock had two big pieces of cake and laughed and joked with all of them. When he told them a story about jumping out of a tree and scaring Mycroft so bad that he fainted, he was gesturing with his hands and knocked a tea cup onto the floor. It shattered, pieces scattering everywhere.

Sherlock looked shocked. He pulled his arms around his body, hugging himself, and he started to rock. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered as he looked down at his lap. “I didn’t mean to.”

John reached out and touched his arm as Brad got up and started to sweep up the glass. “It’s okay, Sherlock. You didn’t do anything wrong.” John was shocked to see tears dropping onto Sherlock’s lap. “Hey, mate, look at me.”

Sherlock looked up. There was fear in his eye. “I’m so sorry. Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” John said gently. “It’s alright.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course not.”

Sherlock looked confused. “No one’s mad?” He looked around the table and everyone told him no. “But . . . but Mummy would have sent me to bed.”

“It’s alright, Little Brother,” Mycroft said.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, uncertainly. 

The next morning, Sherlock seemed to have forgotten the incident and enjoyed a morning of crap telly, tea, and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson and Sam. Mrs. Hudson called him “dear” and “sweetheart,” pampering him like he was her son. Mycroft had had a talk with her about Sherlock’s feelings for her and how he considered her to be like his mother. She touched his arms a lot and his hair, kissing his forehead and letting him lay his head on her shoulder.

John came by after work to visit as did Mycroft. They had news they wanted to tell Sherlock. They wheeled him into the bedroom, and they sat down and looked at Sherlock.

“We have some news,” Mycroft said.

“Is it good news?”

“Very good news,” John said.

“The men who captured you. I have them in custody. They can’t hurt you anymore,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked at his hands and then closed his eyes.

“Don’t go back there, Sherlock,” John said, touching his arm. “Come out of your head. They can’t hurt you anymore. Not ever again.” He gently patted Sherlock’s cheek. “Open your eyes.”

“Eye,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “They took the other one. They took everything.”

“But they can’t hurt you anymore, Little Brother. I have them and they will spend the rest of their lives paying for what they did to you.”

“And the one behind it?”

“We’re going to be questioning them. We’ll get it out of them.”

“Do you promise me, My?”

“I do.”

Sherlock nodded and wiped his face. “I . . . I’ve cried enough over them. Are you going to be there when they’re questioned?”

“Yes.”

“Are you John?”

“Yes. Greg’s coming to.”

Sherlock stopped to think for a moment and nodded. “I . . . I can’t. I couldn’t stand to see them again, to hear them laugh at me again.”

“You don’t have to see them ever again.”

“I see them all the time. I hear them all the time. Maybe now that I know they can’t hurt me, I’ll be okay. Maybe, finally, I’ll be okay.” Sherlock looked out into the sitting room, his eye starting to go glassy. 

Mycroft touched his shoulder. “Don’t go there, Sherlock. It’s okay. You’re safe here.” 

They wheeled him back to the sitting room and tried to keep him occupied. Mrs. Hudson said, “Oh, thank Heavens,” when they told her.

Sherlock was quiet, his eyes haunted. John knew as soon as he was alone he would slip back to the warehouse and relive those five days over and over.

“It’s going to be a bad night, Mycroft,” John said as the two of them made tea.

“I’ll stay with him tonight. We’re going out to deal with them tomorrow. I’ll send a car for you and Gregory in the morning.”

Sherlock spent a restless night lying in his brother’s arms. He’d had nightmare after nightmare. Mycroft would shake him awake before the dream got too bad, but it made for a sleepless night for Mycroft. Normally this would concern him. But losing a night’s sleep seeing what those men were still doing to Sherlock had angered him to the point where he was in just the right mood to confront them.

He rose early and took a long, hot shower, dressing impeccably in the suit that Anthea had dropped off the night before. He heard her let herself in with the key he’d given her.

She wordlessly handed him a cup of strong Earl Grey. “Is my schedule cleared for the next few days?”

“Yes, Sir. Only emergencies and I’ll personally field them.”

He nodded.

“How’s Sherlock?”

“Not well. The sooner this is over the better. Dr. Cooper is coming this morning?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ve already arranged it.”

“Good.”

They heard the lift engage. Mrs. Hudson stepped through. 

“You’re awake early,” Mycroft said.

“I heard you about. Is something going on? Is Sherlock alright?”

“No. I’m off to interrogate the men who kidnapped him. Sherlock’s . . . upset. He’s having flashbacks, and he had a lot of nightmares. Could you sit with him until he wakes?”

“Of course.”

“The psychiatrist will be here this morning. Try to keep him busy so he doesn’t drift off into his mind.”

“I’ll do my best. Will you and John be back later?”

“Indeed. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mycroft went back into the bedroom and looked down at Sherlock. He was twitching and moaning in his sleep. He sat down beside him. “I swear, Sherlock. I swear on my life that they’ll pay for doing this to you.” He reached out and shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Wake up. Wake up now. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he came into Mycroft’s arms.

Mycroft hugged him. “Shhhh. It’s okay. You’re home. You’re safe.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but Mycroft could feel him shaking. He gently laid him back on the bed. 

“It’s okay. You’re alright.” He reached down to wipe the tears from Sherlock’s face.

“Are you going?” a small voice asked.

“John and Gregory and I will be going right away. Can I get you anything?”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s coming in to stay with you. Would you like me to ask Dr. Hooper to come too?”

“Would you?”

“Of course. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

“Alright. If you say so.”

“Try. Try to enjoy being with your friends. You’re safe, Sherlock. There are men surrounding the building. No one can hurt you.”

“I know that logically, My, but in here,” he touched his chest, “In here, I’m afraid and in here,” he touched his forehead, “they’re always there, hurting me and laughing when I scream.”

“I know. But they won’t ever, ever be free again. Never.”

Sherlock nodded. “I . . . I’ll try to be strong.”

“You are strong. You’ve always been strong. I’ll be back later.”

Sherlock gave him a weak half-smile.

 

When Mycroft reached the car, he found Greg and John already waiting.

“How is he?” John asked.

“He had a bad night. He didn’t get much sleep and when he did, it was full of nightmares. Mrs. Hudson is with him. I’ve called Dr. Hooper and asked her to come. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to keep him busy. So he doesn’t zone out and have a flashback. He told me he knows they can’t hurt him anymore, but they’re always in his mind, hurting him and laughing when he screams.” The last word Mycroft said thickly, finding it hard to speak past the lump in his throat.

“Those bastards are going to pay. They’re going to wish they’d never been born,” John said.

“I agree entirely with your sentiments,” Mycroft said. “There are five of them. I’m sure that we can satisfy our desire for revenge. And they will talk.”

They drove for two hours before coming to a gated and walled compound. They were quickly waved through. The building they stopped in front of looked like any grey cement government building, three stories high.

The three of them exited the car and went up the stairs. They entered the elevator and Mycroft hit the button for a sub-floor. They rode for what seemed forever.

“How many floors are we going down?”

“Seventeen . . . The three up top are just for show. There are a lot of bad people here. You’ll only be going to the one floor.” They stepped out into a cold, harshly lit hallway. “The cells are a few hallways over. They have no light, just a toilet and sink and a cot with no blankets or pillows. They get a meal a day, entirely adequate to keep them alive, and can drink water from the sink.”

Greg whistled. “You really do go old school, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They walked into a room where five men — who’d suffered various levels of beatings — were handcuffed to chairs, wearing only their pants.

Just seeing them made John’s blood boil. He wanted to tear them apart with his bare hands. He wanted to make them feel pain for the rest of their lives. He glanced over at Greg, who seemed to be struggling to hold himself back.

“Ah, gentlemen. I take it your accommodations are comfortable?” Mycroft asked. John could hear the edge to Mycroft’s voice. This might be him at his most polite, but something very, very dark was seething beneath the surface.

“Who the fuck are you? Where are we? I want to see my lawyer.” All five of them were talking at once.

“Lawyer?” Mycroft said. “Why, what makes you think you’ve been arrested? You weren’t read your rights, were you? You don’t think any of this is remotely legal, do you?”

All five had looks of equal part fear and confusion on their faces.

“What do you want with us then? Who are you?’

“Where are my manners today?” Mycroft said, as he brushed an imaginary piece of dust from his sleeve and leaned on his umbrella. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe all of you are acquainted with my little brother . . . Sherlock.”

The men paled.

“The man to my right is Dr. John Watson, formerly Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. He’s my brother’s best friend.

“The man to my left is Chief Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He’s been a mentor and father figure to my brother. 

“So, gentlemen, as you can well imagine, all three of us are quite, quite anxious to see you . . . punished for what you did.”

“You can’t do anything to us. You’re just trying to scare us,” one of them said.

“I’m afraid only a handful of people know where you are, and all of them are very highly paid to look the other way. I do so hope you enjoyed your last look at the sky, the trees, the grass. You won’t be seeing them again for the rest of your lives — no matter how long — or short — they happen to be.”

“What do you want?”

“My brother is paralyzed, can’t use his hands, is brain damaged. What do you think we want to do?” Mycroft let that sink in. “Oh, and one of you may not be punished as severely if you tell me who’s behind this.”

“We are. We came up with it after that little bastard sent us to jail,” the one in the middle said, sneering. 

John took three steps and backhanded him, hard, across the face before returning to Mycroft’s side.

“You must be him,” the man said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “The one he cried for. I’d hear him at night. After the lights went out, after we’d all fucked him, and left him hanging from the ceiling. We’d hear him crying and calling for John. Calling for you to come and help him. Begging you to find him.” He laughed.

John felt rage envelop him. He took a short breath through his nose and made another move, reaching into his pocket. He grabbed hold of the man’s hair and tugged his head up, a scalpel flashed as he sliced into the man’s face — down through his left eye in an imitation of the scar on Sherlock’s face.

The man screamed, flailing as blood flew.

John calmly wiped the scalpel off on the man’s skin and dropped it on the table before returning to Mycroft’s side.

Greg looked a bit green, but Mycroft looked rather pleased. “Do stop screaming.” He snapped his fingers and two of his men lifted the man up and drug him from the room.

“Where are you taking him?” one of them demanded.

“Don’t want him bleeding too much. He’ll need all the blood he has. John, you have given me an idea. There are five of them. You’ve picked the one to get the face scars, one will get his legs crushed and mangled, one can get stretched until his arms are damaged and have his fingers cut off, one whipped until his back has no skin, and the lucky one gets the electric shock and twenty-three lines carved into his chest. What do you think?”

“Sounds like the bastards are getting off easy,” Greg growled.

“Maybe, you’re right. What do you think, John?”

John turned to both of them and leaned in close, whispering.

Greg nodded grimly. Mycroft nodded as well. “Ah, just the thing.”

He snapped his fingers and three of the men were dragged out of the room.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft said to John and Greg. “You may remember this gentleman.”

“Tyler Lawrence. Sherlock caught him after a series of assaults on the homeless and two murders,” John said. 

“They were just tramps. I was cleaning up the city.”

“They were people, you scum,” Greg snarled.

“Now. I want to know who freed you, who told you what to do, and arranged everything.”

“I don’t know. My lawyer told me someone approached him. If I did it, I’d get freed, get some payback, ten million pounds, and fake ID so I could get out of the country. It was a sweet deal.”

“For you, perhaps. Did you know your associates beforehand?”

“I met Dylan inside a couple of times but not the other three.”

“He does seem to be cooperating, doesn’t he?”

“Were you given instructions on what to do to Sherlock?” John asked.

“We told to hurt him bad. It was up to us. Though the instructions were to make sure by the end of it that there were permanent injuries.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t to be able to walk or use his hands, permanently scarred, especially his face, and make sure that he was brain damaged.”

“Were you ordered to . . . rape him?”

“Yeah. Almost forgot. We were told he’d never had sex before, and we were to make sure that we fucked him over and over. I’ll give him this: it took a lot to make him scream the first time. He had this look on his face, like he wasn’t even there. We whipped the back half off of him before he first screamed. Then it kind of got to be a contest between us to see who could get him to scream the most.

“But he only cried when we fucked him. He only begged once . . . the first time. He begged us not to. Said it was for someone else. I guess he was a virgin, but had someone in mind.” He snickered. “Guessing in was you,” he nodded towards John.

John’s eyes were swimming. “Oh God, Sherlock,” he thought. His hands clenched and unclenched.

This time, though, it was Greg who snapped. He took a few steps and starting hitting him over and over. “You bastard! All of this is a joke to you? We’ll see how funny you think it is now.” He continued to pound on him.

John moved towards him, but Mycroft put his hand on John’s arm. “Let him get it out.”

It was long minutes before Greg stopped. Tyler was unconscious, blood dripping from his nose and lip.

“Well, that’s two we can’t question now,” Mycroft sighed. “Let’s go to the next room.”

“This,” Mycroft said as he stepped in the room, “is Dylan Morris. This was from before you met him, John. He murdered his pregnant wife. I believe Sherlock caught him because of lawn clippings in the cuffs of his trousers. Wasn’t that what it was, Gregory?”

“Yeah. Stupid bugger.”

“Piss off,” he said from the chair.

They questioned him and he gave much the same answers: his lawyer was contacted, he was offered the same, told to do the same thing.

“Never thought we’d break him,” he said. “He begged us not to rape him the first time but never begged again for that anyway. He did beg us not to destroy his hands though. He begged us not the left hand. The right if we had to, but not the left. Peter made sure he took three off the left. And Peter was right, he did cry at night. He cried for you.” He looked up at John. “I did feel bad about it. I shouldn’t have killed my wife. I know that. And I shouldn’t have hurt him. I didn’t want to . . . you know. But the guys made me. I only did it twice, I swear.”

When they finished questioning him, they moved to the next room. “Tony Falk,” Mycroft said.

“Wanted for a series of assaults and sexual assaults. Sherlock tracked him down because of a loose shoe heel as I recall,” John said.

“The pompous twat,” Tony spat. “He deserved what he got. And let me tell you, you lot of gits, he were a great fuck. So tight. Moaned like a whore. Couldn’t get enough of me.”

This time John knocked him on the floor and stood with his foot on Tony’s neck. “Keep talking. Go ahead.”

“He cried like a girl. Calling for you. I bet it’s you,” he choked out. “You’re the one he wanted, aren’t you? You fucked him yet?”

John crushed his heel into his throat until Tony was choking. “Keep talking.”

“I don’t believe he can,” Mycroft said. “Though I could care less if you kill him, John, I think that would let him out of this too easily. You want him to suffer, don’t you?”

John lifted his foot and bent down as Tony coughed. “Who contacted you?”

“Fuck off,” he rasped.

“This one,” John said. “Get the legs done and no anesthesia.” 

Mycroft nodded. “Well, I believe Peter Kent is still being seen to. So we’ll question Jonathan Clayton.” 

Clayton was cooperative, telling them the same information as the others. 

As they left the room, Mycroft said, “I believe we have the information we need. I’ll contact Anthea and have their lawyers brought in. We are so close. Shall we stay to watch them tortured?”

Greg looked a bit green.

John said, “I’d like to. At least one and the little operation I mentioned.”

“Ah yes.” They went back to the first. Tyler looked up at them. “Arms, do you think?”

The other two nodded. Two of Mycroft’s men grabbed him and forced him onto a gurney where they strapped him down. Two doctors entered. One gave him an injection as he struggled.

“Oh that’s just to paralyze you from the waist down so you won’t move. You’ll feel every bit of this,” Mycroft said.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tyler asked as he tried to get loose.

“You’re going to be punished. You’re going to be hung from the ceiling until there’s permanent nerve damage in your arms and then we’re going to cut off five fingers. But first, all of you are going to be punished for touching my brother.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say you won’t ever be able to force someone to have sex with you ever.”

“No! You can’t! You can’t! Please!” The doctors ignored him. One taped Tyler’s penis to his stomach as they began to cut his testicles off. Tyler screamed in pain until he passed out. As the doctors finished stitching him up, Greg ran from the room.

“That’s one. Shall we stay for the rest?”

“I need to see this, Mycroft. I need to know they can’t hurt him ever again.”

Greg skipped the next three. All of them pled and begged, but all three had no chance of talking their way out of it.

They even waited for Peter to wake up so they could watch.

The torture wouldn’t happen today. They would have to wait until the incisions healed.

On the way home, all three men were exhausted. John felt a certain level of satisfaction knowing those men would suffer.

Mycroft had learned that all five lawyers had been picked up and were ready to be questioned. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

Both John and Greg nodded.

“I’ve taken the liberty of having them brought to a place I know. Would you like to handle this, Gregory?”

Greg smiled. “Oh yeah.”

When they arrived, Greg led them into a room where they could watch. He slammed open the door to the interrogation room. The high-priced, three-pieced-suit wearing lawyer nearly jumped out of his skin. Greg looked at the file in his hand. “Let’s see: you were Dylan Morris’s lawyer, right?”

“I demand to know why I’m here. I will bring down a civil case on you that will see you . . .”

Greg slammed the file down on the table. “Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up!” he yelled.

“You can’t speak to me that way . . . I’ll . . .”

“What part of that sentence didn’t you understand?” Greg growled.

The man shut his mouth. 

“You were Dylan Morris’s lawyer, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Who contacted you about the jail break and the kidnapping of Sherlock Holmes?”

“What? I would never take part in . . .”

Greg slammed his hand down on the table. “Cut the bullshit. Dylan told us himself that someone approached you. We have the other four lawyers here too. If you talk, maybe you’ll avoid jail for conspiracy, aiding and abetting a jail break, and accessory to kidnapping and assault.”

The man paled.

“We know you brought him the offer and acted as an intermediary. Do you know what they did to Sherlock?” He picked a photo snapped at the crime scene of Sherlock lying in his own blood.

The man paled even more. He turned his head and threw up on the floor.

“They tortured him, cut him open, crushed his legs and feet, cut off fingers, whipped him until the skin hung in strips, mutilated his face, knocked out his teeth, and they raped him. Sherlock Holmes is paralyzed, can’t use his hands, and is brain damaged. He’ll be in pain the rest of his life. And if you were even tangentially involved, I’ll make sure he sues your ass for everything you own.

“Now, who contacted you?”

The lawyer looked up at Greg. “A man offered me two million to take this offer to my client. Just to take the offer and tell him if it was accepted. That’s all I did. All. I was surprised when Tyler actually escaped. And I just found out about Mr. Holmes’s injuries the other day on the news. I swear.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know him. He passed on the messages and then the money. I heard the driver call him Mr. Brook.”

“I want a sketch artist to come in and you’re to give him a description.”

“Yes. Yes I will.”

Greg picked up the file and left the room, coming in the door of the room where Mycroft and John were waiting.

“Very impressive, Gregory,” Mycroft said.

“Let him sit in there with the smell of his own sick for awhile,” John growled.

The other four lawyers also described the same man. Only one of them had heard the name Brook. One had seen an R. on the man’s handkerchief. All promised to give descriptions. And none of them seemed the least bit interested in the fate of their clients.

“R. Brook? Richard Brook?” John said.

“Too much of a coincidence not to be,” Mycroft replied.

“Then it is Moriarty?” Greg asked.

“No, that fucker’s dead,” John said. “But it’s someone connected with him. His number two man, Moran, maybe?”

“No, Sherlock killed him in Switzerland.” 

“But someone definitely connected.”

“I’m going back to my office and get the best people I can on this. Gregory, the lawyers need to remain incommunicado in case they try to warn our Mr. Brook.”

“I’m going back and see Sherlock. Let him know he’s safe from them and that we’re close to finding the go-between.”

John returned to 221B. He was exhausted, but he was also worried about Sherlock.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with Mrs. Hudson and Molly. His head was on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder and each of them was holding one of his hands.

Sherlock looked up at John. His eyes were red and swollen, his face wet.

“Are you alright?” John asked as he sat down on the coffee table in front of him. 

Sherlock looked down at his lap. “It’s been a hard day,” he whispered.

“We’ve been with him all day,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He’s had good and bad periods. He won’t eat though. And he’s only had a few drinks of water.”

Sherlock continued to stare at his lap, his face turning red.

John reached out and touched his hand. “It’s okay. I need to talk to you.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Can you look at me?”

Sherlock’s eye flicked up and looked at him quickly before his head fell again. 

“Is it okay if I carry you into the bedroom?”

Sherlock nodded.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly stood up so John could gather Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock laid his head against John’s shoulder.

“You really are going to have to start eating more,” John said as he sat Sherlock down on the bed. He sat down beside him and took his hand. “You know that those five men are being held. That’s where Greg, Mycroft, and I went. It’s out in the middle of nowhere in this reinforced bunker with all these guards. And their cells are 17 floors underground. We questioned them. They’re being punished, Sherlock. They’ve been roughed up and each will be appropriately tormented for what they’ve done to you. And, Sherlock, none of them will ever be able to force anyone to have sex ever again.”

Tears began to fall onto John’s hand. Sherlock was shaking.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” John said as he gathered Sherlock into his arms. “They can’t ever hurt you again. Never.”

“Who? Who did this?”

“We don’t know yet. They all had the same story. Their lawyers were approached and offered money to take the deal to each of the five. They were each to get help in escaping, ten million pounds, and help to leave the country. Mycroft rounded up the lawyers. They all described the same man who approached them. One heard him called Mr. Brook by the drive. Another saw an R. on his handkerchief.”

“Richard Brook? Someone connected to Moriarty?” 

“That’s what we think. The lawyers all described him to sketch artists. He looked familiar to me. I don’t know why, but he did.” John grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the bed. He picked up Sherlock and laid him down, covering him up. He crawled under the covers too and gathered Sherlock into his arms, holding him tight. “We’re so close to finding the person behind this. It won’t be long. And you’re safe here. You’re safe with me. Mycroft’s men will shoot any stranger who comes in. We’re here for you. We’ll always be here.”

Sherlock wrapped his fingers tight into John’s shirt. He closed his eyes and breathed in John’s scent. It was calming him down. It did feel better to know that these five men were never going to see the light of day again. 

He looked down and noticed John’s hand was bruised. “Did you hit one of them, John?”

“Did more than hit,” John said. “So did Greg.”

“Why?”

“They wouldn’t shut up about you, the bastards.”

“What did they say?”

“That’s not important.”

“But . . .”

“No, Sherlock. I’m not telling you what they said. You don’t have to think about them anymore.” 

“They’ll be in my head for the rest of my life, John.”

“If I could take them out I would.”

“I know. Maybe it will get better now. Maybe after the person who did this is caught.”

“I promise Mycroft will turn the world on its axis to find whoever it is.”

“I know he will.”

“You’re so precious to all of us. Do you realize that?”

“No. Not sure I could be.”

“You are. You always will be.”

They lay quietly for a long time. John had started to drift off when Sherlock whispered, “And you’re precious to me.”

John smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. Anything he did to help this broken man in his arms would never, ever be enough. But they had made a start today. Five men would never be able to hurt him again and would be reminded every day of the rest of their lives what a terrible idea it had been to accept that offer. 

“Do you think you could eat a little if I took you out to the kitchen?”

“Maybe. Will you make me a sandwich?”

“Of course I will.”

John got up and picked up Sherlock, carrying him out to his wheelchair and wheeled him to the table. 

“What kind of sandwich would you like?”

“Don’t care. Can I have some crisps too? And some juice?”

“Now, you’re hungry?” John said, smirking.

“You made me hungry. You made me feel better.” Sherlock smiled at John. “I don’t know why I can’t stop this. I wish I could stop crying all the time. I don’t want to cry — to give any more tears to them. Not after what they did to me.”

“You know it’s not your fault. You can’t control your emotions.”

“I know. I just . . . I can’t give them the satisfaction. They destroyed me, John. I’ll never get over it, but I really need to try and move on. I know that I have to. It’s just so hard. It’s hard to not think about it — dwell on it.”

“I know, Sherlock. It’s PTSD. I was the same way. You’ve been going through so much. It will get better. Once we find the bastard behind this, it’ll be better.”

“I hope so.”

Mrs. Hudson and Molly joined them at the table as John made them, and himself, a cup of tea. 

Sherlock told Mrs. Hudson and Molly about them being close to finding the person behind it all. They were both happy for him.

Sherlock ate every bit and drank his juice and a cup of tea. “I’ve got the latest Bond movie in my last shipment. Will you watch it with me?” he asked John.

Mrs. Hudson decided she’d go out shopping, and Molly returned to work. Sherlock thanked both of them for staying with him.

John carried Sherlock over to the sofa and covered his legs. “Want me to put on a fire? It’s a little cool in here.”

“That would be nice.”

John put on the fire and turned the television on. The news was just coming on.

“Where’s the Blu-ray?”

“Under the shelf.”

“Shocking news regarding former consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. This station was sent an email this afternoon which read, ‘You may have won this round, but you won’t catch me.’ It came with a link to a website that shows the detective being tortured and sexually assaulted by five men. We’ll show you a small clip. A warning: This is a very disturbing and graphic video and may cause distress. The sensitive and small children shouldn’t watch.” The scene switched to show a naked Sherlock hanging from the ceiling. A whip whizzed through the air and Sherlock’s body arched as he screamed. There were bruises, cuts, and burns all over him. The scene shifted to show him lying in a puddle of blood on the floor. It was dark. Sherlock was quietly crying. “John, please. Please find me. John, please. Where are you?” The next scene showed him tied to a bed, his back a bloody mess as a naked man moved towards the bed and climbed on top of him. All the naked pictures had pixilation over the genitals. 

The picture switched back to the newscaster. “Apparently there are five days’ worth of tape showing the brutal treatment of the detective. We have identified the men in the video as . . .”

John had been standing in shock. Hearing about what had happened and seeing it were two different things. He snapped himself out of it and turned to Sherlock. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open, and he was whimpering. His eye was glazed over like he wasn’t there. He took a deep breath and began to scream.

John tripped over himself trying to get to him. Sherlock’s hands were reaching out, looking for something to hold on to. His body was violently shaking.

John tried to touch him.

“No! Don’t hurt me! Please no more! Please!”

“Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John. You’re safe. You’re safe here with me. You’re home, Sherlock. You’re home.”

“No! Don’t lie! You’re going to kill me! Stop it! No more, please! Don’t touch me like that anymore! It’s not yours! It’s John’s! Please!”

Sam was at John’s side. “What can I do?”

“Call Mycroft and Dr. Cooper now!”

“Don’t hurt me anymore! John! John!”

“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here. Look at me. Please look at me.” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. Sherlock flinched away from him. John touched him again. “John’s here, Sherlock. John’s here for you. I’m here. Please look at me.”

“Please,” Sherlock whimpered. “Please don’t rape me again. Please.”

“I won’t hurt you. It’s me. It’s John. It’s your John. I’m here to see you. I’m here to help you.”

“John, please, help me. John, please.”

“I’m here, Sherlock. Please look at me.”

Slowly Sherlock’s eye turned to him. He blinked once, then twice more. “John?” he whispered. 

“Yes, Sherlock. It’s me. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe here with me.”

“You came. You came to get me. Oh, John. John, they . . . they hurt me,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know they hurt you. But you’re safe now, Sherlock. You’re safe. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Sherlock looked confused. “But we’re still here. In the warehouse. I hurt, John. It hurts everywhere. Get me out before they came back. Please.”

“You’re safe, Sherlock. You’re not there anymore. Look, look. You’re home. You’re safe.”

Sherlock looked around. “How . . . how did I get here?”

“It happened months ago. You’re out of the hospital. You’re safe.”

“I . . . Then how . . .” A growing look of absolute horror came over Sherlock’s face. “News! It was on the news! They filmed it! It’s on the internet! Anyone can see it! Anyone can see them hurting me, torturing me . . . raping . . . me.” Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh God. Anyone in the world can see what they did. You saw on the telly. You saw it. My friends, my parents, Mycroft, everyone can see.” Sherlock was hyperventilating.

John pulled Sherlock into his arms. “You’ve got to slow your breathing down or you’ll pass out. Try to breath slower, okay?”

“I . . . I . . . can’t . . . I . . . they’ll . . . know . . . John. Every . . . one . . . will . . . see . . . it. They’ll . . . all . . . laugh . . . at . . . me.”

“Slow down. Breathe with me. In . . . out . . . in . . . out. Try for me, okay.”

Slowly, Sherlock’ breath began to even out.

“They’ll all laugh. They’ll all laugh like they did. They’ll say I deserved it.”

“No one will laugh, Sherlock. No one will laugh.”

“They will at the Met. All the ones who hated me. They’ll laugh and say I deserved it. And all the people I put in prison. All the people who hated me at school and at uni. All the people who think I’m an arrogant twat. They’ll laugh when they hear me scream. They’ll laugh when they find out that they raped me. They’ll laugh when they hear me calling for you. Oh God, John. I just want to curl up in a ball in the corner and die. I’m so ashamed.”

“You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You didn’t do anything wrong. They’re the ones who did it.”

“But the world knows now, John,” he wailed. “Even Mycroft will never get rid of it. It’s online. People will see it.” 

“I know.” John pulled Sherlock closer. “I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could stop this.”

“I can’t do this anymore, John. I can’t. I can’t. How much more do I have to take? How much more pain? Who could hate me so much to do this to me? Why won’t they let me suffer in peace?”

“I don’t know. I don’t. But when we find them, what we did to those five men will be a picnic compared to what we do to them.”

“John, please. Please let me go now. Please. I can’t stand the pain anymore. I can’t live like this. I’m hanging onto my sanity by my fingertips. I can feel myself slipping, John. I can feel my mind going. And when it does, I’ll be caught forever in that warehouse, reliving it over and over until the day I die. I’ll be in my head screaming for help and no one will hear me. Do you really want me to suffer like that? Do you want me sitting in that wheelchair, drooling and in nappies with a feeding tube in my side while I suffer through those five days for years and years?”

“Of course I don’t. You’re stronger than you think, Sherlock. You’ve always been strong and always will be.”

“Not anymore. I’m not him anymore, John. It was bad enough that my friends and family knew how humiliated I was. Now the whole world knows that the great Sherlock Holmes was put in his place — that he’s just a paralyzed, brain damaged piece of nothing who got raped and raped over and over again. And not only do they know it, they can call it up on their laptop and watch it.

“I feel like a ghost, John. I feel like I’m fading away. That every last bit of Sherlock Holmes is going. That the husk will be all that’s left. I’ll be gone soon, John. All of me will be gone.”

John couldn’t speak because he knew it was true. Sherlock did seem to be fading away. He knew the old Sherlock would have gone stir crazy long, long before this. Keeping him in the flat for two weeks when he had pneumonia had been a massive headache for all concerned. Sherlock wasn’t complaining about being bored. He was so emotional and so unlike himself. Every nightmare, every flashback had felt like it had taken a bit more of his soul with it. 

“Please try. Please try for me,” he whispered.

“Why, John? You have a wife and a family. You have a good job. You have friends. You don’t need me in your life anymore. Can’t you see, John? If you let me go then you’re freeing yourself from the burden that’s me. Please free me. Let me go where it won’t hurt, where there can’t be any more pain. Where I can be myself again. Where my mind will be whole again. Why don’t you want me to be whole again?”

“I would give my life to have you whole again.”

Sherlock pulled away from John. “Then set me free. I’m enslaved to you and the promise I made you.” Sherlock’s eye was dry, the pain radiating off of him in waves. “Free me, John. Let me die before whoever it is sends someone to hurt me worse. They’re trying to drive me mad and they’re winning.”

“Don’t let them win. Don’t let them beat you.”

Sherlock looked at him. “In what way do you think they haven’t beaten me already? That they haven’t beaten me into the dirt?”

“You’re still alive. You’re breathing. You’re heart’s beating. People love you.”

“If people loved me, they’d realize this is the best thing for me. It’s what I want. I hate you seeing me like this. I hate it. I want you to remember me from the last day before I disappeared. The last day I was alive. I’ve been dead ever since, John. My body just won’t stop working. Please, please my love, I’ll do anything you want if you free me.”

“I . . . I can’t,” John said, as he touched Sherlock’s face. “Don’t ask me to do this. I won’t let you go. Suicide is never the answer. It will get better. Your life will go on.”

“There’s no life.” Sherlock searched John’s eyes and pulled away from him. He turned towards the kitchen. “Sam, will you take me into bed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sherlock, please.”

Sam picked him up and carried him into the bed. When he came back out, he said, “Sherlock wants to be alone.”

“Well, at least the door’s open. His brother will be here in a few minutes.” John went and stood outside the bedroom in the hall.

“I hear you, John. I won’t hit my head.” Sherlock reached into his bedside drawer and quietly pulled out his laptop. “Go sit down, John. Leave me alone.”

He heard John move away from the door. He opened the laptop and turned down the sound. It took him a few minutes to be able to open the internet and type his own name into the search engine. The first result was “Shocking Video Surfaces of Sherlock Holmes’s Torture.” He clicked on it. He saw himself being dragged into the room. They had knocked him out. They stripped him and hung him from his wrists from the ceiling. He forwarded it as they began torturing him. Tears burned on his face as he started to cry. He forwarded it a bit more. They lowered him from the ceiling. He’d tried to fight back, but his back was torn open and his arms were numb. They pushed him towards a bed and threw him face down onto it. Two of them tied his arms to the legs of the bed. He struggled but they hit back with the whip again. They tied his feet as well. He remembered hearing the sound of one of them taking off his clothes. He’s trembled in fear and struggled to free himself.

They’d laughed at him as he begged them not to do it. He promised them anything if they didn’t do it. They’d laughed harder and said they were going to take everything from him anyway. He watched, horrified, as one of them crawled on the bed, spread Sherlock’s arsecheeks with his hands, and drove himself into him with no preparation. Sherlock had screamed and screamed. It had felt like he was being torn in two. And he’d mourned that the thing he’d wanted most to give to John was taken from him so viciously.

“Oh, John. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wanted it to be you. But you don’t want me.” The video continued. As soon as one finished, another would take his place until all five of them had taken him. He remembered how it hurt, the tearing, the blood. They’d turned him over and tied him up again as, one by one, they carved a line on his chest. He watched himself curl into the fetal position on his side and cry.

He heard a sound and looked up. John and Mycroft were standing there, looks of horror on their faces.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

Sherlock looked back at the screen. “I live through this, John. I replay it every day in my head. Yes, it surprised me when it was on the telly and triggered a flashback. Now I can see what the rest of the world is seeing. They can all see my shame, my humiliation. They can all laugh.” Sherlock forwarded it until he was hanging by his wrists again. They were whipping him while another was hitting him in the stomach and chest. He remembered feeling his ribs snapping. How hard it was to breath. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it. It was still the next day before they would be destroying his legs. As he watched one of them move up behind him, standing on a heavy box. He grasped Sherlock roughly around the hips and forced himself into Sherlock. Sherlock’s head had snapped back in a scream as the man in front of him laughed.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Mycroft said. “Please, Little Brother. Don’t torment yourself like this.”

“There were the ones doing the tormenting. Go away, both of you.”

“Sherlock, please. Turn it off.”

Sherlock reached over and turned the sound back on. The room filled with the sound of Sherlock screaming, the man’s grunting, and the slap of flesh on flesh. Sherlock had grown to hate that sound.

He didn’t look up as John ran from the room. He could hear him vomiting in the loo. The man finished and slapped Sherlock’s arse as he got down off the box.

“He really is a good fuck,” the man said to the other one. “He’s so tight and that arse. Give me your knife and hold him.”

Sherlock whimpered as he moved back behind him and carved something into him. He knew the word MINE had been carved there. He had felt the blood dripping down him as the man moved in front of him and carved a line in his chest. Then they left. Sherlock hung there, softly crying.

Sherlock forwarded it again to the next morning. “Listen,” one of them said as the others took him down and tied him to the bed. “We’ll let you go now. All you have to do is choose.”

“Choose what?”

“You get to choose from your brother, John, Greg, or Molly. Choose one of them to take your place and you can go.”

“No.” Sherlock hadn’t even hesitated for even a second.

“Let me finish. Otherwise, we keep you for three more days. Today, we’re gonna make sure you never walk again. Tomorrow we’ll do something just as bad and the next day something worse. Do you really want that? We won’t do much to them. Won’t rape them. Just whip them a bit. Maybe cut them a bit.”

“No. Never.”

They took at his legs and feet with sledgehammers. He screamed and screamed as the bones splintered. They placed them in a large vice and turned it until he could hear the bones breaking. When they took it off, his feet were unrecognizable. 

“Stop this now, Sherlock!” Mycroft said as he snatched the computer from his hands.

“Go to hell, Mycroft. And get the fuck out!”

Mycroft looked surprised.

“Can’t you see what this means? Mummy and Daddy will be so ashamed. Their friends will see this. They will be so embarrassed that I’m their son. I’ll . . . I’ll never see them again. And I’ve ruined you. How can you look into the eyes of a world leader who’s seen your little brother raped and tortured on the internet? You have to cut off all of your ties to me. You can’t ever see me again, ever. And my friends . . . none of them can ever see me again. All of their friends will have seen this. They’ll be ashamed of me too. I’ve got to go away.”

“No,” he heard John say from the doorway. “No. You’re not going away. Your friends and family are here for you. We’ll always be here for you.”

“I’m . . . I’m not worth it,” Sherlock whispered. “My life is done.”

“Sherlock, of course you’re worth it,” Mycroft said, sitting beside him. “You’re my little brother, and I’ll always love you. My job is important to me, yes. But you need to know that you’re more important.”

“You’re important to all of us,” John said.

“Is Dr. Cooper here?”

“Yes. In the sitting room. Do you need to talk to him?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Cooper came in, and they talked for awhile about what he’d said. “I need to know something.”

“Alright.”

“I know Mycroft made all my care decisions when I was in the hospital before. But can I voluntarily commit myself?”

“Yes.”

“Can I also decide who can visit me and who can’t?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to take me there tomorrow morning. I don’t want any visitors under any circumstances.”

“Sherlock, that’s really not . . .”

“It’s what’s best for all of them. I want someone to come at seven before Mrs. Hudson comes up. Will you write a letter for me? I want to leave something for Mycroft and John.”

“Sherlock, you can’t leave all the people you care about. It’s unhealthy to be alone.”

“It’s best for them, Doctor. It’s best that they not have to deal with me, with the humiliation I’ve brought into their lives.”

After Dr. Cooper left, Sherlock reluctantly let himself be talked into having dinner with Mycroft, John, and Mrs. Hudson. They purposefully didn’t talk about the video. After a pleasant evening talking, Sherlock asked to go to bed early, saying he was tired. Mycroft and John both offered to stay, but he said he was exhausted.

As Brad was putting him to bed, he asked him to get him up at six a.m.

The thought of going back to the hospital filled him with dread. The thought of never seeing his friends and even Mycroft upset him. But he knew that he’d made sacrifices for all of them before. And this sacrifice needed to be made. He was bringing nothing but problems into their lives, and he didn’t want to burden them anymore. He lay awake most of the night.

When Brad came to get him, he hurried through his bath. He asked Brad to use the clippers to cut his hair. He had no need of longer hair in the institution. He had him cut it to half an inch. The scars from his brain surgery were clear, shining pinkly through the fuzz left. Brad dressed him. Sherlock asked for him to pack his thick socks, some pants, and a few pictures.

“Can I ask where you’re going, sir?”

“Just away.”

Brad nodded.

“Can I have my medication?”

“Of course. What would you like for breakfast?”

“Just some juice and a piece of toast.”

He’d finished his breakfast when he heard the doorbell.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and Sherlock could hear the note of surprise in her voice. The lift started.

“Brad, will you get my bag?”

The doors opened and Dr. Cooper got out with Mrs. Hudson.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” She looked very worried.

“I’m going away, Mrs. Hudson. Back to the hospital. It’s what’s best for everyone.”

“Are Mycroft and John coming to see you off?”

“They don’t know I’m going. I’m sectioning myself, Mrs. Hudson.”

“But . . . but . . . I’ll come to visit you later today.”

“No. I won’t be accepting any visitors. It’s for the best. I’m ruining all of your lives. Now you’ll be free of me.”

“But dear . . . we want to be with you. Please don’t do this.”

“I have a letter for Mycroft and John — well, it’s for all of you. Please give it to them.”

“Oh Sherlock,” she said and bent down to kiss his forehead. “What have you done with your hair?”

He smiled sadly at her. “Don’t need good hair in a mental institution. Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson. Please be happy.”

Dr. Cooper assured Mrs. Hudson that he would be well looked after before he wheeled Sherlock into the lift and out to the waiting van.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has sectioned himself. As he struggles with his pain, his mind, and his isolation, his doctor tries to help. On the outside, his friends try to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated mature for language and a sex scene. Heed the warnings.

Mrs. Hudson went downstairs and called Mycroft.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock alright?”

“He’s gone, Mycroft. Dr. Cooper came and got him. He voluntarily sectioned himself to the institution. He’s gone. He told me he won’t accept any visitors. He said it’s the best for all of us. Oh, Mycroft. What can we do?”

“That fool,” Mycroft said. “It’ll be alright. I’ll get him out.”

“He’s left a note here for us.”

“Can you read it for me?”

“I’ll just pop upstairs and find it,” Mrs. Hudson took the lift upstairs and looked in Sherlock’s bedroom, finding it on the end table by his bed. “I found it.” She tore open the envelope.

 

Dear friends,

I know you’ll argue up and down with me. I know you won’t listen. I know you don’t care what I think or want. I know you think you know what’s best for me under every circumstance. I know you’ve taken care of me and I appreciate it. But I can’t do this to you anymore. I want to. I want you all to look after me. To comfort me. But I can’t be selfish anymore.

Mycroft: I told you that I’m ruining your life. You need your head back in your job. You’ve caught the men who did this to me. If I’m in an institution all alone, then the person behind this has won. There’s nothing left to take from me. Forget about your troublesome little brother. Go back to running the world. I love you.

John: I know you think you have to save me. But I have to save you. You need to be with your family. I’m taking you away from them. I’ll make sure your children have the means to go to any university they want. I will love you until the day I die and beyond. Be happy, my John. Always be happy.

Mrs. Hudson: You’ve been like a mother to me. You made me feel loved. You looked after me when I was at my worst. I can never thank you enough for it. I want you to be happy. Thank you for everything. 

Greg: You’ve been like a father to me. You saved me when I had nothing to keep my mind quiet but the drugs. If it wasn’t for you, I would be dead long before now. Thank you.

Molly: I feel like I took advantage of your feelings for me sometimes and I’m so sorry for that. You once told me you didn’t count, but you always did and you always will. I hope you find the happiness you so deserve.

Mary: I know that we’ve not always got along, at least since the kidnapping, but you’re the one that has John’s heart. Please look after him, Rosie, and the baby, and yourself as well.

Mummy and Daddy: I know you didn’t want to see me anymore. I’m sorry that I’m a disappointment to you. I’m sorry that you’re ashamed of me and that I’ll never see you again. I want you to know that I love you, and I know I wasn’t a good son. Thank you for putting up with me as long as you did.

I love all of you, and I’ll miss you, but I can’t ruin your lives. I can’t be a burden to any of you anymore. I promise that I’ll be alright. Please try to forget me. Just remember the Sherlock that you first knew. I will think of you all everyday.

I love you. Goodbye. 

SH

 

Mycroft was quiet as he listened to Mrs. Hudson weep. In truth, tears were running down his own face.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said, clearing his throat. “Please try and calm down. I’ll go get John. Can you call him and read him his part of the letter?”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

“Thank you. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Hudson brought herself under control and called John. When she explained what happened and read the letter, she could hear John sniff at the other end. “Mycroft’s coming to get you.”

“Alright. I’ll be ready. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can do to get him home before tea.”

John hurriedly dressed and told Mary where he was going.

“But if this is what he really wants, John, shouldn’t you respect his wishes?”

“What he wants is to kill himself, Mary. It’s only because he promised me that he wouldn’t that he’s still alive. He begged me yesterday to free him from the promise. I wouldn’t so now he’s gone and done this. This is his solution. Why does he keep doing things like this?”

“Because he thinks he’s protecting you, John. He’s protecting you from him. He doesn’t want you to feel like you have to give up your life for him.”

“I know that special Sherlock logic, but he’s wrong. I need him in my life, whatever part of him is left. He’s always thought he wasn’t worth caring about. You should have heard the part he wrote to his Mum and Dad. He was apologizing for being a disappointment. That they must be ashamed because of what they did to him. He mentioned you too. Asked you to look after me because you have my heart.”

Tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. “Go get him, John,” she said. “Save him from himself.”

“That’s what I always have to do.” He looked out the window. “Mycroft’s here. See you later.” He kissed Mary on the lips and left the house.

He got into the car beside Mycroft. Anthea handed him a cup of coffee.

“How long do you think he’s been planning this?” John asked.

“Not long. Yesterday, probably.”

“Why does he always think he doesn’t matter, Mycroft? I can’t get my mind around it. I know he has low self-esteem, but to isolate himself for the rest of his life because he thinks that’s what’s best for us?”

“Sherlock will never think he’s good enough, John. Not for any of us.”

“I hope you plan to read that letter to your parents. They were so kind to me, but they’ve completely broken his heart.”

“I plan to. I can’t fathom their behaviour. Perhaps it’s because seeing him like that upsets Mummy, but he needs their support. No wonder he believes they’re ashamed of him.”

“They aren’t are they?”

“I haven’t spoken to them. I suppose I can be as childish as Sherlock sometimes. It just angers me that they’re treating him like this.”

“I can’t understand it myself. He needs them. Just like he needs us.”

“I will be talking to them. I’ll find out their rationale for this. One way or the other.”

When they arrived at the hospital, they walked side by side to the front desk.

“We’re here to see Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said.

The woman behind the counter checked the computer. “I’m sorry. It’s marked here by his attending physician that he’s to have no visitors.”

“I’m his brother. I have power of attorney over his medical decisions, and this is his doctor, his general practitioner, Dr. John Watson.”

“I’m sorry, sir. The instructions are quite explicit. There’s nothing I can do.”

“May we speak with Dr. Cooper?”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” She paged Dr. Cooper. A few moments later, the telephone rang.

“Yes, sir. There’re two men here to see Mr. Holmes. . . . Yes, sir. I told them no visitors. . . . They want to speak with you. . . . Yes. I’ll let them know.” She put down the receiver. “He’ll be down in a few minutes. If you’d like to take a seat.”

A few minutes later, Dr. Cooper joined them and ushered them into a private room.

“What’s going on, Dr. Cooper?” Mycroft asked.

“Your brother’s asked me if I believed he was competent enough to voluntarily admit himself, and I believe that he is. He was very emotional as he dictated a letter to me. Did you find it?” 

John and Mycroft nodded.

“He doesn’t want to leave you. He wants very much to be with you. But, in his mind, he’s convinced that he’s a burden, an embarrassment to all of you. He truly feels that you’re all better off without him. He’s been through so much pain in the past few weeks. I’m surprised that he hasn’t completely fallen apart. Whoever it is behind all of this knows exactly which buttons to push to cause him the maximum amount of pain. I’ll work with him and try and get him to see how much he needs you. He brought pictures of all of you for his room. I’ve been trying to work on his self-esteem lately and now that that person can’t get to him, we’ll see what we can do to fix it.”

“He’s had self-esteem problems virtually his whole life. Problems I’m loathe to admit that I helped foster. Between that and the nasty little fiends who made his life hell at school, he never had a real chance.”

“I promise I will do everything I can to help him. He’s taken so many hits to his self-image since he was kidnapped, I think a bit of rest will help.”

“But he’s got no one to talk to, to sit with him,” John said.

“I’ll make sure he has his books and his music. He’ll not be able to watch television, only movies. No newspapers, no outside visitors. I’ll make sure he’s well looked after.”

“But . . .”

“Dr. Watson, I hate to say it, but you do upset him at times.”

“I upset him?”

“He’d never admit it. And he has told me over and over that the most important thing in the world to him is your happiness. But sometimes he is heartbroken, absolutely heartbroken, knowing that you’ll never love him back. I’ve never seen someone love someone else with the depth of his love for you. He can deal with the physical pain. He can deal with never walking again, never using his hands, even the brain damage. But I think the thing that truly broke him was being raped — was their taking his virginity when he wanted so desperately to give it to you. And he knows that you never and will never want him sexually. We haven’t even worked on getting him to move past the rapes so he could have a normal sex life. He told me there was no point. He would never want anyone else for the rest of his life, and the only one he wanted wouldn’t touch him ever.”

John felt that hit him like a ton of bricks. “I . . . I’ve told him that he’ll find someone someday.”

“He doesn’t want anyone else, Dr. Watson, and he tells me he never will. I believe him. In his heart, the two of you are soulmates. You are his heart and always will be. He’s lost everything that was his life, and he’s lost all hope that you’ll love him. I’m trying to find something for him to focus on, for him to want to live for, but I’ve not been successful yet. He’s promised to live for you because he doesn’t want to hurt you. His parents’ rejection, his feeling of being a burden with nothing to offer anyone, the fact that you have a family that he feels incredibly guilty for taking you away from, the job that he feels he’s taking you away from, Mr. Holmes. In his mind, his death would free all of you from him. He doesn’t think there’s anything left to live for.

“I will do what I can. I will, of course, let you know in general terms how he’s doing. And I will try and get him to see how much he needs you. I should get back to him. He’s just settling in,” Dr. Cooper got up and left the room.

“Do you think he’s right?” John asked Mycroft as he stared at his clenched hands. “Have I hurt him that much?”

“Yes. He’s been in love with you since he met you, John. He didn’t tell you because he was afraid you’d leave. He’s suffered so much for you: he’s been tortured, he’s killed, he’s died, he stood by your side and watched you marry someone else. That night when he left your wedding reception, I found him with enough drugs to kill him. I held him that whole night while he cried and asked me over and over again why you couldn’t love him. He thought he would never be good enough for you. Why do you think he murdered Magnusson? He knew he’d be sent on that mission. I think it was the only form of suicide that he knew you couldn’t blame him for.”

John looked up at Mycroft. “Oh God, Mycroft . . . I never . . . I never meant . . .”

“I know. You never mean to hurt him, John. But you always do. You’ve been the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. But I can’t really be sanctimonious. I’ve hurt him his whole life. My brother has closed himself off from emotions because I told him to. But I believe he feels far more than any of us do. He has an infinite capacity for love. And with that comes an infinite capacity for being hurt.”

John ran a shaking hand through his hair. “I’ve thought about it. About being with him. But I just . . .”

“I know, John. I think we should go. I’ll have Anthea arrange for someone to keep an eye on Sherlock.”

“You don’t trust Dr. Cooper?”

“At this point, I don’t trust anyone. We’ve identified our Richard Brook. His name is Daryl White. He was caught by Sherlock in one of his first cases with Gregory. He got out a year ago. We’ve got a lot of people searching for him. I’m hoping he’s the one to lead us to whoever’s behind this.”

“He still looks familiar. I can’t quite place my finger on it.”

They went out and got in the car. “I’ll drop you at the clinic?”

“Okay. I’m not even late. My boss will be pleasantly pleased. I can’t thank you enough for covering for me.”

“Sherlock needed you. And he will again. He’s stubborn but he’ll realize soon enough that you’re what holds him together. He does love you, John. And though I do believe that it’s been a hindrance, especially when you lose your temper with him, you are everything to him. And he’ll see it. He’ll see that he can’t go on without you. Those two years away almost killed him. When we were cleaning out the last place he was hiding before he was captured in Serbia, we found he’d left behind a few things in case he was captured. One was a creased picture of you. I think he’d carried it the entire time he was away. I’d say it was the most precious thing he had and probably all that kept him sane. Because he knew he was coming home to you. He knew that everything he was suffering was so that you would be safe.”

“And how did I greet him? I hit him over and over. Tore the stitches open in his back. And still he ran into a bonfire to save me.”

“He would run into hell itself for you, John.”

“I know. And yet he was so utterly surprised when I told him he was my best friend, like he’d never considered it was a possibility.”

“I imagine he didn’t. Knowing Sherlock, I’m sure he didn’t think he was worthy to be your best friend.”

When they arrived at the clinic, John got out but leaned over to look inside. “Please let me know if you hear anything.”

“I will.” Mycroft watched John walk into work. “Take me to my parents’ home.”

 

Sherlock could already feel the walls closing in on him. He hated this place with a passion but knew it was going to be his home for the rest of his life. He missed his bed and his blankets and pillow. He missed the cozy sitting room, the kitchen, his sofa. He missed all of his friends and Mycroft, but this was the best thing for all of them.

His music was playing, and he closed his eyes, trying to sleep.

Dr. Cooper came into the room. “Sorry, Sherlock. Had to step out.”

“What was the matter?”

“Your brother and Dr. Watson insisted on seeing you.” 

“You’re not letting them are you?”

“No. I told them that you didn’t want to see anyone. I did tell that that I would let them know anything you wanted me to. I would also let them know if your health took a turn.”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s not that I don’t want to see them. I just don’t want to be a burden to them, an embarrassment. If I’m out of their lives, they don’t have to go on like this.”

“Sherlock, you know that’s not how any of them feel.”

“They may not say it out loud, but they probably think it.”

Dr. Cooper gave him a sceptical look. “I won’t argue with you, but I do think you’re wrong. Today, I want to start working on your self-esteem.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock, for a man with all of your accomplishments, with people who truly love you, with all of that, you have the lowest self-esteem I’ve ever seen.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s only me. I don’t count.”

“Count for what?”

“Anything.”

“Let’s just start this exercise, alright?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Use three words to describe yourself.”

“Worthless. Useless. Burden.”

“Try to use three positive words this time.”

Sherlock thought and thought. He looked up at Dr. Cooper with a confused look on his face. “There aren’t any positive words about me.”

Dr. Cooper looked sad for a moment. “You really can’t think of anything?”

“If it was before, maybe that I was smart, musical, a good chemist. But I’m none of those things now. I’m stupid. I can’t play my violin. I can’t do my experiments or even remember the basics of chemistry.” 

“You aren’t stupid. You’re brain damaged.”

“I can’t remember things. I can’t do anything by myself. It’s embarrassing and humiliating.” 

“But none of it’s your fault.”

“If I hadn’t put them in jail, they wouldn’t have come after me. Whoever’s in charge of them, I must have done something to make them angry. I always make people angry. They always hate me.”

“Why?”

“In school, it was because I was smarter than the others. They hated that I got all the good marks, all the praise. So they called me names and beat me up. I started talking back, telling them how stupid they were. That meant more black eyes, skinned knees. One day, I brought my science fair project to school and won first prize. After school, they gathered around me and beat me until I was unconscious. I was only eight. Mycroft found me that night. I was in the hospital for three days. It was the same at uni. People hated me for being more intelligent. They hated me because I deduced them. I started taking drugs because I was lonely, scared. When I started at the Met, the other officers hated me, called me names. The same names the kids at school and the students at uni used.”

“What was that?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “Freak,” he whispered.

“You know that all of this is their problem, not yours, right?”

“If I wasn’t a freak, why would all of them call me that?”

“They were jealous of you: your intellect, your looks.”

Sherlock snorted. “They should see me now. They certainly wouldn’t be jealous of me now. They’ve probably seen the footage. Heard me screaming and crying, calling for John. They probably think I deserved it. Maybe I did.”

“No one deserved what happened to you.”

“I know some people who would beg to differ.”

“Then it’s their problem. You know if someone feels like that about you, then there’s something wrong with them, not with you, right?”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “I’ve been told all my life that I’m useless, worthless, a freak, that I don’t deserve friends or love. My own parents don’t want to have anything to do with me. I just want some peace, Dr. Cooper. That’s all I want. And I will never have it.”

“Why do you think that? We’ve been working on ways to . . .”

“To forget? I can’t ever forget. The pain is here, all the time. I’m managing it because I have to but most of the time I feel like screaming. It hurts so much. I can’t block it out. If I open my eyes, I can’t see out of my left eye. If I look down, I see my mutilated hands or my mutilated legs. How can I forget? As soon as I see or feel any of those things, I remember them. At least before, when I was tortured in Serbia, the scars only hurt a bit when it rained or if I overdid it. And I could only see them if I was looking at my back or studying my torso.

“And I can’t even escape when I’m asleep. There isn’t any pain, but they’re there. Or my dreams get twisted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dreamed that John found me, but he just looked at all the scars in disgust. He told me he could tell they’d raped me and, he didn’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. He said I was dirty and disgusting. And he left me there, left me there to suffer.” Sherlock was shaking when he finished.

“John wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I know but in my head, when I think about how much I love him, I can’t help think that he couldn’t possibly, even if he was gay or bisexual, that he couldn’t ever want me. I’m disgusting and dirty, like he said.”

“You aren’t. You were raped, Sherlock. You had no control over what those men did. If it had been John . . .”

“Don’t say that. I couldn’t bear it if they’d hurt him.”

“But would it make you want him any less?”

“Of course not. I love him. I would be there every moment to help him recover. I’d let him scream and swear and shout abuse at me. I’d let him hit me if he wanted. Anything to make him feel better. Anything to show him that I love him and always will.”

“And you think he wouldn’t do that for you?”

“He doesn’t love me. It’s all a moot point. He can’t love me. I’m not worth it.”

“Sherlock, you have to stop doing this to yourself. Do you have any idea the harm you’re causing yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“How could it not matter?”

Sherlock looked up at him. “It’s just me. It doesn’t matter if I suffer or if I’m in pain. I don’t matter, so the harm doesn’t matter.”

“You can honestly sit here and think you don’t matter at all?”

“Of course. I’ve been made to feel like that all my life. Are you telling me everyone was wrong? Even the people I care about have called me names, hit me, hurt me. If they think I deserved it, how can I matter? You’re not supposed to do those things to someone you love.”

Dr. Cooper reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand. “I have an idea. I’m going to ask your brother, your parents, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg to write you and tell you how they feel about you.”

“What good would that do? You’ll just tell them to write positive things. It’ll be all made up.”

“I’ll ask them to write honestly — the good and the bad. And you’ll see how much they care.”

“Do what you like. I won’t believe them. My parents don’t want to have anything to do with me anyway. They’ll never write.”

“Do you really think your parents don’t love you anymore because you were attacked, because you’re scarred?”

“Mycroft was their favourite. He never did anything wrong. He didn’t care if people made fun of him. He didn’t get upset that he didn’t have friends. He didn’t do experiments and break things to make a mess. He didn’t deduce their friends and say which one was having an affair or which one was hitting his children. I was unbelievably difficult. It’s no wonder. They’ve just had enough. It’s one step too far. They are embarrassed by and ashamed of me. I understand. I’m not saying that it doesn’t hurt. It does, incredibly so. But I love them and I always will.”

“And you think it’s best not to see any of your friends and brother as well.”

“They don’t need me mucking about in their lives. I’m of no use to them anymore.”

“So unless you can offer someone something, they have no reason to be your friend.” 

“It certainly wouldn’t be for my sparkling personality. I’m rude and ignorant and stupid and boring. Who wants to talk to someone whose whole world is a few rooms off a lift? Who sees the world through the telly and books and music? I’m nothing. I’m nobody anymore. Once I was Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective who saved lives, solved murders, stopped crime. I was on telly and in the newspapers because I made a difference. Now I’m in them because I’m an object of derision. It’s best that they all distance themselves from me. It’s better for them.”

“But what about you, Sherlock? You’ve told me of the sacrifices you’ve made for your friends, your family. You’ve taken it upon yourself to keep them safe, to make sure they are happy. But what about you? Do you never consider what’s best for you? You know it would be best if you had your friends around you to support you, to help you. Especially after everything that’s happened.”

Sherlock looked confused. “What’s best for me is to know they’re happy, they’re safe. As I’ve said before, I don’t matter. I never have and I never will.”

Dr. Cooper sighed. “Alright. Let’s try this. If John had been in a car accident, for example, and he was paralyzed and brain damaged. If he pushed you away because he didn’t want you to feel obligated, because he felt he was a burden, because he couldn’t help you on cases anymore. What would you do?”

“I’d stay with him.”

“Even if he told you to go away?”

“Of course.”

“Then why can’t you believe he wants to do the same for you? He’s told you that you’re his best friend. People stand by their best friends through everything.”

“But John is a good man. John is kind and caring. He said I was his best friend back when I could still take him on cases. I can’t offer him anything but boredom now. And I’m an awful person. Why should he tie himself to me? Eventually he’ll forget about me. Remember the old Sherlock maybe from time to time. He has a family. He has a job and responsibilities. He’s got no time for me. Nor should he waste his time thinking about poor, broken Sherlock. I’m part of his past now. His children are his future. I can’t take him away from them. It’s not fair. He loves Mary.”

“Have you ever considered that the only person that you’ve ever chosen to love romantically is someone you know can’t be yours? Do you think that’s why you chose him? Because you knew he could never love you back?”

Sherlock looked hurt and offended. “I love John because of who he is. I love John because of how he makes me feel. When he smiles, it’s like my whole world is focused on that. He makes me feel safe and whole and wherever I am, if I’m with him, I feel like I’m at home. Don’t you dare ever question why I chose John. Don’t you dare.”

“Alright,” Dr. Cooper said, holding up his hands. “So you never question loving him?”

“Of course not. I’ll love him until the day I die. John is everything I’m not. He’s good, he’s loving and caring, he’s funny. He’s way too good for me, I know that. He couldn’t love me, ever. But being around him makes me happy.”

“They why deny yourself that?”

“Because his happiness is much, much more important than mine. And I can’t make him happy anymore.”

“Do you think he believes that?”

“He’d say no. But what would he need me for? I’m useless.”

“To be his friend.”

“He has plenty of other friends. When he got married, he didn’t come to see me for over a month. If he hadn’t found me in a drug den, I might never have seen him again. He’ll forget soon enough, especially after the baby’s born.”

“That must have hurt. When he abandoned you.”

“More than I can say. If it hadn’t been for my brother, I would have overdosed the night of the wedding. I felt so alone, even more worthless than before. But I understand why he did it. He was newly married. He and Mary were having a baby. He wanted to get settled and build a stable life. He didn’t need me around to ruin that.”

“It seems terribly selfish of him to abandon you like that. He knew that you were prone to drug abuse.”

“John had his priorities. I just wasn’t one of them.”

“After he told you he was your best friend? After you declared that you loved him in your best man’s speech?”

“I probably made him uncomfortable. I . . . I shouldn’t have said that in front of Mary and all their guests. It was so hard standing in that church watching him marry someone else. It took every bit of strength I had not to object to the marriage, not to say that Mary couldn’t have him because I loved him.” Sherlock looked at his hands as a tear meandered down his cheek. “Can . . . can we not talk about this now? It hurts too much.”

“I know it hurts, Sherlock. It really hurts to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. And it’s alright to be angry or even to hate them a little.”

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “I could never hate John. It wouldn’t matter what he did to me.”

“Sherlock, let’s talk about something else. You seem to have a lot of self-hatred. What would it take for you to feel better about yourself? What do you think you need to change?”

“My personality. My body. My disabilities. My mind. My face. Everything.” 

“Don’t you think you have any redeeming qualities?”

“Not anymore,” Sherlock said. “Before I had John. He made me a better person, just by being around.” Sherlock shivered. He glanced over at the picture of John on his bedside table. He longed to see his face, hear his voice, feel his hand on him. He longed for John to be laying there on the bed holding Sherlock in his arms. 

“Sherlock, I know you’re tired. I want to leave you with something to do.” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. “I’m going to leave this with you. At the end of each day, I want you to ask the nurse to write in it for you. I want one positive thing every day this week. Next week, I’ll want two.”

“Positive things don’t happen to me, Doctor.”

“It doesn’t have to be anything large. It could be that you enjoyed your book or you liked listening to a particular symphony. It’s about training your mind, Sherlock. You’re stuck in such a negative place. I know it seems impossible to think of anything positive about yourself. But if you start small, it will be easier. Then you and I can talk about what you have written down. Can you try this?”

“I suppose. I don’t know what I’ll write.”

“Think about it. You’ve done a lot today. Why don’t you nap now before lunch? I’ll be back this afternoon and we can talk some more.”

Dr. Cooper lowered the bed and helped Sherlock turn on his side. He reached out and touched John’s picture. “I love you, always,” he whispered. He ached down to his bones from missing John and the enormity of the thought that he’d never see him again. He closed his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He thought of John’s warmth, his smell, his smile. He wrapped his arms around himself and imagined it was John.

When he drifted off, he dreamed of John. They were together at Angelo’s. Sherlock was whole again, free of pain, his Belstaff and scarf on the chair next to him. John was in Sherlock’s favourite oatmeal-coloured jumper. John was smiling at him, his dark blue eyes sparkling. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand. It was so warm, and the touch so tender.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice purred. “You know how much I love you. You make me happier than I ever thought I could be. All my life, I thought I would never settle down, never find the right person. But as soon as you spoke to me the first time in Bart’s, I knew that I wanted you. And when I think about the years we wasted, too afraid to tell each other how we felt. And if I’d known how fantastic you were in bed, I’d of jumped you right in the lab. If you had any idea how many days at work they ask me if my leg’s bothering me.”

Sherlock crinkled his brow. 

“Think about it. You make me walk funny . . . how would you do that?”

Sherlock could feel his face grow hot. “Oh, you mean from the sex.”

John laughed. “Of course from the sex. You are incredibly well endowed you know.”

“I believe we’re equally endowed,” Sherlock smiled.

“Well, maybe. We’re off topic a bit though. I love you and you make me incredibly, unbelievably happy.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes . . . will you do me the extreme honour of marrying me?”

Sherlock was floored. Tears sprang to his eyes. “J . . . John. I . . . I love you more than anything in the world. I would love to be your husband. Yes, oh God, yes.”

John’s smile lit up the room as he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, fully and deeply.

Sherlock had to catch his breath when they broke apart. He leaned his forehead against John’s. He brought his hand up and cupped John’s cheek.

John kissed away the tears from Sherlock’s face. 

“I . . . I’ve never been so happy in my life,” Sherlock said.

John opened the ring box. Inside was a platinum band. He took it out and gave it to Sherlock. “It has an inscription.”

Sherlock looked. It said, “My light.” He felt the tears again. “Because you’re my conductor of light.”

John took the ring and slipped it on Sherlock’s finger.

Angelo brought over a bottle of champagne. “Congratulations! Many happy returns!”

“I think we may need a caterer,” Sherlock said.

“It will be my supreme pleasure.”

Sherlock kissed John again.

They slowly walked home, hand in hand. As they climbed the stairs, John’s hands began to wander. As he shut the door and locked it, Sherlock pushed John against the door, crushing his lips to John’s. John moaned low in his throat. Sherlock felt him pull the scarf from Sherlock’s throat and start to unbutton the Belstaff. Both ended up in a heap on the floor. Sherlock pulled off his gloves and unzipped John’s jacket, letting it slip to the floor. Both toed out of their shoes, their hungry mouths never leaving the other’s mouth. They felt their way down the hall to their bedroom. Sherlock smiled as they reached the door.

“What’s so funny?” John asked.

“Nothing. I’m just so happy.”

John smiled at him as Sherlock reached down and took a hold of the hem of John’s jumper and pulled it over his head. Each started on the buttons of the other’s shirt. When John finished, he pushed Sherlock’s shirt and suit jacket to the floor. Sherlock tossed John’s on the floor as well.

They stopped for a moment, looking at each other. Sherlock reached out and ran the back of his hand down John’s neck, across his pectorals, and down his stomach.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

John smiled at him, reaching out to tweak one of Sherlock’s nipples and ruffle his fingers through Sherlock’s black chest hair.

They reached down and undid each other’s belts and let their trousers drop to the floor before they stepped out of them and their socks.

Their pants left little doubt that they were both incredibly aroused. Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand then turned and pulled the blankets to the bottom of the bed. He moved John so he was lying on his back on the bed before he climbed in and lay down beside him. 

“You’re the only person in the whole wide world for me,” Sherlock purred as he sucked John’s earlobe into his mouth.

“You’re the only one I’ll ever want,” John moaned as he reached out to caress Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock continued kissing down John’s neck and across his chest, drawing his nipples into his mouth and biting gently before laving over them time and again with his tongue. John moaned as his fingers tangled in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock continued down, kissing and licking.

When he reached John’s cock, it was already erect, a tiny drop of precome already on the slit. Sherlock placed a tender kiss on each of John’s balls, licking them until John shuddered with pleasure. He licked a line up the underside of John’s cock before he drew it into his mouth. He savoured the taste of John on his tongue for a moment before he began to bob his head. John was moaning above him, his eyes shut tight.

Sherlock pulled off of him with a wet popping sound. 

“Look at me, love,” he whispered.

John opened his eyes.

“I want you to watch me,” Sherlock said, smiling wickedly.

“Oh God, I love you,” John whispered. “Do you want the lube?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock said as his mouth enveloped John again. 

John moaned as he reached into the bedside table and passed Sherlock the bottle of lube.

Sherlock continued to bob his head as he squirted a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. He reached down and started to gently circle John’s hole. The barest of touches made it clench and John moan. His finger continued to circle lightly and then with a bit more force before he slowly inserted the very tip of his finger. He waited for John to relax before he ever so slowly inserted his finger. As John relaxed around him, he pulled his finger almost out and then in again, luxuriating in the velvety insides of John.

“M . . . more,” John moaned.

Sherlock looked up and popped off. “Are you sure?”

“More.”

Sherlock’s second finger joined the first slowly, waiting for John to adjust before he went in. He crooked his fingers and found that magic spot that made John swear and arch his back in pleasure. His fingers moved in and out, caressing his prostate with every second thrust. 

“One more,” John moaned.

Sherlock pulled off of him and pulled his fingers out to re-lube. He gently put the tips of three fingers at his entrance.

“Are you sure?”

John nodded.

Sherlock inserted the tips of his fingers. John sucked air through his teeth at the burn. Sherlock waited until he relaxed before he continued. John groaned as Sherlock reached his prostate again and all three fingers moved in and out, stretching him.

After a few minutes, John looked up, his eyes wide with lust. “Want you.”

Sherlock smiled. “You sure you’re ready, love?”

John nodded. He handed Sherlock the wipes so he could clean his hand. Sherlock wiped his hand and sat up. He squirted a huge dollop of lube on his hand and ran it over his woefully neglected cock. He moaned as his slippery hand coated him completely. He wiped his hand on the sheet. 

John smiled. “Fuck me love.”

Sherlock guided the head of his cock to John’s entrance. He pushed just a little until the head breached him. John moaned at the stretch. Sherlock stayed still, achingly still, when all he wanted to do was thrust full length into John’s tight heat.

John reached down and touched Sherlock’s chest. “Keep going.”

Slowly, oh so slowly, Sherlock eased himself into John until his balls were up against John. 

“You’re okay?” Sherlock asked.

“Just give me a moment. I’m so full.”

“Am I hurting you?” Sherlock asked, concerned.

“No, love. It just burns a little. It always does at first. But it’s going away. Start moving.” John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him in further. 

Sherlock eased his way out and then back in slowly. When John was moaning, he sped up, unable to control himself. On every third thrust, he pushed hard against John’s prostate. John was swearing now, nearly incoherent, and Sherlock smiled down at him. He reached out and took John’s cock in his hand. He pumped it in time with his thrusts. And John was moaning so loudly, he was sure Mrs. Hudson could hear.

Sherlock felt the orgasm building inside him, but he wanted to make sure John came at the same time. He sped up even more, his heart pounding, sweat dripping from his forehead.

He felt John stiffen beneath him as he aimed one hard thrust at his prostate. John spilled onto Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock stuttered and felt the white hotness of the orgasm sweep him away. He came and came and came as John clenched around him.

When he could see, when he could think again, he looked down at a happily smiling and quite out of breath John.

“You are absolutely amazing,” he whispered as he unfolded his legs from around Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s softening cock slipped free of John, and Sherlock laid down beside him, trying to catch his breath.

John pulled a few wipes from the package. Wiping Sherlock’s penis thoroughly, he then moved to clean his semen from Sherlock’s chest.

“You are amazing,” John said. “You are, without doubt, the best lover I’ve ever had.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked.

John got up to take the wipes into the loo. Sherlock noted, with not inconsiderable pleasure, that John was slightly limping.

John returned and pulled the covers over both of them before snuggling into Sherlock’s arms. He laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, listening to his heart beat. 

“I’m afraid your co-workers may be making fun of you tomorrow,” Sherlock said as he kissed the top of John’s head.

John giggled. “Undoubtedly.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No. Not really. It’s a good hurt.” He swirled his fingers through Sherlock’s chest hair.

“Stop that. It tickles.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I love you, John. My John. My fiancé.”

“That’s right. I belong to you and you belong to me.”

“Forever.”

They entwined their fingers as they settled in to sleep.

 

In the hospital room, Sherlock was smiling. 

 

Mycroft arrived at his parents’ house mid-morning. The weather was sunny, though cool, so he left his umbrella in the car.

He knocked on the door. His mother answered and enveloped him in a hug. “Mike, it’s so wonderful to see you. Come in. Come in.”

She led him into the kitchen, where his father sat at the table, a just brewed cup of tea in his hands. He smiled broadly at his eldest son. “Mycroft, what a lovely surprise.”

Mycroft sat down, taking in the familiar sights and smells as his mother sat a cup of tea in front of him, then sat down herself.

“I’m here about Sherlock,” Mycroft said, noting the wince on his mother’s face.

“How is he?” his father asked.

“Not well, Daddy. Not well at all. The person or persons behind the kidnapping are going out of their way to torment him. We’ve captured the five men and their lawyers. It appears their lawyers were approached with an offer to get them out of prison, pay them £10 million, and arrange safe passage out of the country. We’re looking for the go-between who contacted the lawyers. Once we have him in custody, I believe we’ll find the mastermind behind it. This person is doing everything he or she can to torment Sherlock — the leaked picture of him leaving the hospital and now releasing the kidnapping on the internet.”

“How is Sherlock?” Mummy asked.

“Distraught, scared, lonely. He’s voluntarily sectioned himself into the institution and refuses to see anyone.”

“Whatever for?”

“He believes that all of us would be much better off without him. He believes that all of the publicity around this has embarrassed us. He left a note saying he wanted John to go back to his family, me to go back to my job, and so on. He wants us to forget him or at least how he is now. He’d rather be remembered for who he was.”

Tears sprang to Mummy’s eyes. “Oh, the foolish boy. How could he think that?”

“He’s under the impression that you won’t come and see him because you’re ashamed of him. That you care more about what your friends think. That you don’t love him anymore. In the letter he left, he apologized for being a disappointment and for not being a good son. But he wanted you to know that he loves you and thanks you for putting up with him as long as you did.”

“Oh God,” Mummy said as she started sobbing. “He really believes that we don’t love him?”

“What else was he to believe? You haven’t seen him since he got out of the hospital the first time. Of course he thought you were ashamed of him. You never even called him to see if he was alright.”

“There isn’t an excuse. I . . . I couldn’t bear to see him like that. His beautiful face all scarred. Sitting in that wheelchair. His poor hands. He lost so much.”

“So you thought losing his parents too wouldn’t hurt him?”

“Mike, I know we should have gone to see him. I didn’t want to upset him.”

“So, instead of upsetting him, you’d rather he believe that you abandoned him?”

“Don’t badger your mother. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

“How do you think Sherlock feels? Do you know how many nights John and I have spent holding him while he cries? He thinks he’s worthless and none of us need him. He’s prepared to spend the rest of his life in that institution, alone.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy cried.

“I’ve talked to his psychiatrist. He’s going to try and convince him to allow us to see him. But I have to ask a question first. Look at me, both of you.” His parents looked up. “Do you truly not love Sherlock anymore?”

“Of course we do. He’s our son. We love him very much,” Mummy said.

“How could you even ask such a thing?” Daddy said.

“Given your recent behaviour, it was a legitimate question. When he’s home, you will come and see him. I couldn’t mention it before because he would have known that I interfered. But now you can say you saw the letter. I will not have you hurt him anymore. He’s been through so much already.”

“Of course we’ll come. How is he, really?”

“Broken, Mummy. Utterly broken. He’s so close to the edge, he’s hanging on by his fingernails to his sanity. He’s suicidal. The only reason he hasn’t gone through with it is because he promised John he wouldn’t hurt himself. He’s begged John to free him from that promise so many times since. But, I’ll give John credit, he won’t. All that’s keeping Sherlock alive is his love for John.”

“And John doesn’t . . .”

“John’s still married, and they’re expecting another baby. Sherlock has never loved anyone but John. I had thought him incapable of it, but he does love John, more than I ever thought possible. Of course, he doesn’t think he’s good enough for John. And John does love Sherlock, though not the way Sherlock wants him to. But John has hurt Sherlock so many times. I told John the other day that he’s been the best and the worst thing in Sherlock’s life.”

“But John is taking care of him?”

“John visits every day, and the two of them talk. John can calm Sherlock when he’s really upset. I honestly think the moments when John holds him in his arms are the happiest moments in Sherlock’s life. That’s all he has now. Just stolen moments of happiness. He’s in so much pain. I wish I could do more. I’m checking into experimental pain medications that won’t leave him unable to think. The nerve damage is so extensive on his back, arms, hands, legs, and feet that it’s almost impossible to cut all the pain. And his head bothers him.”

“My poor boy. My poor, poor boy. I’ll never forgive myself for this.”

Mycroft reached out and touched his mother’s arm. “Just be there for him. Let him know that you still care for him. Hold him like you did when the children would beat him at school.”

“I will. I’m sorry, Mike. We shouldn’t have left this all on your shoulders. We shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that. When he started on drugs, you took care of him. And we haven’t been doing enough.”

Mycroft nodded. “He is my little brother. I suppose I do feel overprotective of him. I should go. I have meetings this afternoon.”

“You can’t stay for lunch?”

“I have to get back.”

“I have some of those raspberry scones you like so much.”

“Really? Well, perhaps I could stay for a bit.”

 

When Dr. Cooper returned after lunch, Sherlock was smiling.

“You look happy,” Dr. Cooper said as he sat down.

“I have my thing for the book. Will you write it down for me? I don’t want to forget.”

Dr. Cooper smiled and picked up the book, turning to the first page and dating it. “Okay, shoot.”

“I had the most wonderful dream. I was with John at Angelo’s. There was no pain. I was whole. No scars. Nothing. John told me how much he loved me and he proposed. He gave me a ring that said ‘My Light’ carved inside. And then we walked home hand in hand. And then we made love, and it was so beautiful. It was everything I thought, I hoped, it would be. And he fell asleep in my arms. I was so happy. I felt so loved, so at home, so safe. I think it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Dr. Cooper smiled as he finished writing. “That’s good. That’s wonderful. I’m glad you had such a good dream.”

Sherlock looked out the window. “I wish I could have stayed there forever. When I woke up, I wanted to cry. The pain was overwhelming. I want to go back there so much. It was my most perfect version of my life. That’s what I think, if there’s a Heaven, that’s what it would be. John and I at 221B. Together forever. Chasing criminals, making love. I would give everything I have to be there even for a night. I want it so much that it aches in my chest. That’s why I want this all to end. If there’s a Heaven, I want to go. I want to be there with John.”

“But at least you have that dream.”

“I’ll have to live off of it for the rest of my life. I could taste him, feel his body against mine, smell him. If I close my eyes, I can see him smiling at me. I can hear him say ‘I love you.’ I wish I could have heard him say it just once. That I could know for sure what his lips felt like on mine. That’s all. But this is all I have. The only love I’ll ever have.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. There’s a whole world out there.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know the future. There’s someone out there for you. I’m sure of it.”

“Who the hell would want me? Besides, it doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?”

“If someone loved me. I will only ever love John. He’s all I’ll ever want. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t love me.” He looked closely at Dr. Cooper. “You’re thinking that it’s the brain damage, aren’t you? That I’m so insistent that I love John because I can’t control my feelings anymore. I admit I would never have been so . . . effusive before. I would never have thought of him in such . . . poetic terms before. But the feelings have always been there. I never thought I was capable of feeling love, at least romantic love. I had never been sexually attracted to anyone in my life. When I was a teenager, I concluded that it was because I was above all of it. That my body was just transport and my brain didn’t require sexual gratification. I never even masturbated as a teenager. But, with John . . . with John, I wanted to touch him all the time. I wanted to feel his warmth, smell him, taste him. I would lay in my bed downstairs and listen when he brought women home so I could hear the sounds he made when he made love. I would get so hard hearing him. I’d close my eyes and pretend he was lying beside me. That it was me that was making him make those noises.”

“You never masturbated then?”

“No. I had decided that, if the time came when John finally wanted me, I was to be completely untouched. I wanted to give myself to him in every way.”

“Even though you knew he was heterosexual?”

“I had thought all my life that I was asexual, Dr. Cooper. I changed when I met the right person. So it turned out I was demisexual. I was in love with John, and it was only when I realized my feelings that I became sexually attracted to him. And it didn’t matter if he loved me sexually. I knew he loved me as a friend, though I didn’t know he considered me his best friend until he asked me to be his best man.”

“So you sacrificed everything for two years, and you didn’t even know that he thought of you as his best friend?”

“It didn’t matter. I love John. I’ve died for him. I’ve killed for him. I would do absolutely anything for him. If he asked me to slit my throat, I’d do it without hesitation.”

“Being that attached to someone who doesn’t feel the same way isn’t healthy. It borders on obsession.”

“It is what it is, Dr. Cooper. I’m not entirely deranged. I know that he doesn’t love me and never will. I live for the occasional touch, his smile, his laugh, what it feels like when he holds me. Those are the stolen moments, the moments that I have in my mind. The ones I can close my eyes and remember. When he moved out, I stole his oatmeal-coloured jumper. It was my favourite. It’s in the drawer here.” He pointed to the bedside table. “It still smells like him. It’s the smell of home and love and warmth and safety. It’s all I have, Doctor. All I have to live the rest of my life on. Don’t try and take it away from me, please.”

“I won’t. It’s strange that you feel so much love for John but you seem so eager to distance yourself from the world, to shrink everything down to these four walls. To deny yourself the least amount of pleasure or friendship or love. You’re punishing yourself for something, but I don’t for the life of me know what it is.”

“I distanced myself from my body all my life. It was just transport, I said. I didn’t eat or sleep when I was on a case. I felt both slowed down my mind too much. I would literally collapse at the end of a case. John looked after me. He’d make me eat when it got too bad. He’d make me go to sleep.

“And now I have to distance myself from the people I care about. It’s best for them. They deserve the best. And I’m not my best. Not anymore. I need them to be happy and taking myself away from them, though it hurts, is what’s best for them.”

“If they’re your friends, they don’t set limits on what you have to be in order for them to be your friends.”

“But they’re good people. I’m not. I’m useless now. I just take and take and take now. I can’t give.”

“You can give your friendship.”

“I don’t think it’s worth much.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not worth anything.”

“How do you define worth?”

“Being able to contribute. I can’t contribute to society anymore because I can’t catch criminals. I can’t contribute to my friends because I have nothing to give.”

“Again, you’re dismissing what your friendship means to them. They like being around you. They like talking to you. They like helping you because they care about you.”

“But I don’t want them to have to feel obligated to be with me.”

“They’re your friends. They don’t feel obligated.” 

“I don’t understand. Really I don’t. I’m barely worth talking to. How can they want to be with me voluntarily?”

“You really don’t understand, do you? Sherlock, you seem to think you’re this terrible person that people only tolerated because of your mind. And now that your mind isn’t what it was, you think you have no value. You told me that the children teased you, called you names, beat you up for being different. How did that make you feel?”

“That I was worthless, useless, that I didn’t deserve love or friendship. They told me all that. Every day at school, the whole time I was there.”

“And in uni, they made you feel the same way?”

“People were nice to me so I would help them with their work, check their assignments, edit or write their papers. But they never wanted me around. I knew that my company wasn’t desired by anyone. Some of the young women and a few young men tried to seduce me. But when they learned I wasn’t interested, they quickly backed off.”

“Don’t you see then? For years, you were psychologically tormented, told all of those negative things about yourself. Your mind absorbed them. If you hear something enough times, you start to believe it. You were brainwashed by them, Sherlock. Brainwashed into thinking you weren’t good enough, weren’t worth their time or energy.”

Sherlock looked at Dr. Cooper. He opened his mouth to reply, to say that it was a ridiculous theory, but he couldn’t. During his two-year hiatus, he’d been subjected to enough psychological torture. They had tried to brainwash him into giving them the answers to their questions. And he recognized the pattern.

“B . . . but can all of those people really be wrong? There were so many of them. They all agreed. I must be all of those things. I must be a freak.”

“Just because people were jealous of your intellect and didn’t like it when you tried to protect yourself by deducing them, doesn’t make them right.”

“But all of them?”

“Still doesn’t make them right.”

Sherlock was so confused. Could they have been wrong? Was he worth caring about? Even now?

“But what about now? I’m not who I was.”

“Still doesn’t mean that people can’t care about you. If they liked you before, why would they stop? Would you stop caring for any of them if this had happened to them?”

Sherlock didn’t know what to think. Was he worth knowing? “No. No, of course not. But they’re good people. I’m not.”

“That’s them in your head. That’s what they told you. It wasn’t true then and it’s not true now. You’re a good person, Sherlock. A person who cares about his friends. Who never hesitated to throw himself in harm’s way to protect his friends. Tell me, if you were a bad person, like you seem to think, are those the actions of a bad person?”

“N . . . no. But I can’t be good. I can’t be. I must be an awful person. I have to be.” Tears started to fall from Sherlock’s eyes.

“Why? Why do you have to be?” Dr. Cooper asked gently.

“Because my own parents have thrown me away. They don’t want to see me. They don’t care that I’m suffering. I must be an awful, terrible person if they can’t love me. They’re supposed to love me. They did in the past. At least I think they did. Maybe they never did. Mummy and Daddy don’t love me.”

Dr. Cooper reached out his hand in Sherlock’s. “Have you talked to them? Have they told you they don’t love you?”

“No,” Sherlock sniffed. “They won’t even call to see how I am. Their son. They’re embarrassed by me, by what happened to me. Their friends must be giving them a hard time about it. So they’ve distanced themselves from me. That’s why I decided I should do the same thing to my friends and Mycroft. If I’m out of the picture, I can’t hurt them or embarrass them anymore.”

“But don’t you think you’re hurting them the same way your parents not seeing you hurt you?”

Sherlock looked up at Dr. Cooper. He hadn’t considered that. Not at all. “I . . . I don’t want to hurt them, but I need them to understand that they are so much better off without me in their lives.”

“Shouldn’t they be the ones to make that decision?”

“Sometimes you have to make decisions that are hard. Mycroft put me away several times, forced me to go to rehab. I didn’t want to go but they helped. This is the same thing. As long as whoever did this to me is out there, I’m not 100% sure that they won’t go after my friends and my family. They haven’t yet but it doesn’t mean they won’t.”

“That really doesn’t sound like that’s the reason. You still think you’re not the person all of them think you are.”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re willing to let all of those people who made your childhood and young adulthood miserable win? Believing those negative things about yourself is doing exactly what they wanted. They wanted you to hate yourself. They wanted you to doubt yourself. And you’ve done that. You’ve let them win.”

“I . . . I don’t want them to win. I hated how they made me feel. I hated it.”

“Then why did you accept it?”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was just easier to accept it then to fight them anymore. I can still hear them, in my head. I still hear the names, feel their fists. I don’t want to be what they said but how do you fight it?”

“Believe in yourself. Believe in Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t exist anymore. I’m just bits and pieces of what he used to be. Sherlock Holmes died in that warehouse.”

“No, he didn’t. Yes, you’ve lost a lot. You’ve lost irreplaceable things. You’ve lost your freedom. You’ve lost the brilliant things you could do with your mind. But Sherlock Holmes is still there.”

“No, he isn’t. I’m a pale shadow of him. He was someone people at least respected. I’m just an object of derision and pity. I’d rather die than live like that.”

“I know you’re suicidal. It’s obvious to anyone who spends more than a few minutes with you. But you’ve said you won’t do it. Because you promised John. If you’re willing to put yourself through all of this pain and torment just so you don’t hurt him, doesn’t that prove you’re a great person?”

“No. It’s because I hurt him so much before, when I left for two years. I miscalculated. I thought he would be okay without me. He wasn’t. I won’t put him through that again.”

“But you told me you were going to be sent away on a mission that would have killed you.”

“John didn’t know that at the time. I wanted to tell him then. Tell him that I loved him, tell him I was going off to die. But I couldn’t do that to him. So I told them that Sherlock was a girl’s name and he should name the baby after me. It made him laugh. I wanted to keep that picture of him in my mind until I died. I’d have that. At least I’d have that. I’d told Mycroft to tell him, when I inevitably did die, that it was an accident. He couldn’t get mad at me for an accident.”

“Again, you’re protecting him. That’s the mark of a good man.”

“It’s the mark of a man in love.”

“They aren’t mutually exclusive. So you think suicide is the only option to ending this?”

“It’s the only one available. There’s a cemetery that contains my fake grave. There have been so many days I’ve longed for them to dig up the empty coffin and put me in it so I can lay in the cold and the dark and finally find peace.”

“Again, it’s letting the people who tormented you, including the men who did this to you, win.”

“I don’t care. You can sit there and tell me that over and over, but you’re not the one in such pain you just want to scream all the time. You’re not the one whose mind is turning to mush. You live with that pain for a day and see if you don’t think death would be better. I could live for thirty five, forty more years. Would you want to live half of your life like that?”

“Sherlock, you’re putting yourself through this hell because you don’t feel you have options.”

“I don’t. Not after they took everything from me.”

“You can still do things. You can go any place you want. You can still do almost anything you want.”

“And have people stare at me, take pictures, laugh. No, thank you. And I can’t do those things. I have to have someone come with me and help me do everything. The biggest freedom for me right now would be to be able to go to the loo by myself so I don’t have to have someone come in and pull my pants up and down and wipe my arse. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is to me?”

“I understand that. And people who have suffered injuries like yours, they all feel the same way. Along with losing the use of your legs and your hands, you’ve lost your privacy. The most intimate parts of your life aren’t private anymore. You’re adjusting to it all. You miss being able to do things you loved. You feel like you don’t have anything left. These are all normal feelings. But it doesn’t mean that your life is over. It doesn’t mean that you can’t go places, do things, love and be loved. You have those thirty-five to forty years to accomplish so much. Don’t give up on life. You don’t know what life will bring you.”

“Pain. That’s all my life has ever brought me. That’s all I’ll ever have.”

“You have love. You have your music and your books. You can start something new. Have a new career.”

“What the hell can I do?”

“Your career as a detective. John kept a blog of it. But why couldn’t you write a series of books about your best cases?”

Sherlock thought about that. “I’m not a writer. And I can’t remember all of the details about cases.”

“You have notes. You have John. The two of you could write together. He can help you remember.”

It did sound good. “But John’s busy. He’s got a family and a medical career. This would take a long time.”

“You could do research. Write notes during the day. There are programs where you can speak into the computer and it will transcribe what you say. You could send it to John to add things or take out things, change sentence structure, and so on.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. It did sound like a great idea. The blog had been very popular. This would keep him busy. His mind wouldn’t stagnate. And it didn’t have to be done immediately. He didn’t even have to leave the institution. He could do it from the bed. He’d just need his notes. “It’s something to consider. Could you ask my brother to bring me my notes and my computer?”

“You don’t want to do this at home?”

“I’m not leaving here, Doctor.”

Dr. Cooper shook his head and sighed. “Sherlock, you’ve backed yourself into a corner. You’ve completely isolated yourself. You’re rejecting people. Your self-esteem is non-existent. All of this is the depression. I’m going to modify your meds. It may take some time for them to work, but I’m confident you’ll start to feel better.”

“I imagine it is the depression. I’ve lived with it my whole life. It’s the dark shadow that covers me, that pulls me into its embrace. That shadow has followed me since I started school. It will follow me until the day I die, calling me freak, making me feel terrible about myself. It’s like a voice in my head making me completely doubt myself. I know that it’s there. It has their voice. It calls me the names they called me. Tells me I’m an awful person and that I don’t deserve to be happy.”

“I can try and make you feel better. The medication and therapy can help.”

“It hasn’t in the past.”

“I’m not willing to give up. You were feeling better when you left the institution and went home.”

“But so much has happened since then. Whoever is responsible for this is trying to drive me mad. They’re succeeding.”

“You’re safe here.”

“Maybe.”

“Can you do something for me? You’ve done your positive thing for me for today. I want you to close your eyes and think back to something that made you happy.”

“There wasn’t a lot.”

“How about playing your violin?”

“Yes. That did.”

“Lay back and think of it. Lose yourself in the music. It will calm you and make you feel better.”

“Alright. I’ll try.”

“I’m going to talk to your brother about getting the files and computer. I’ve got other patients to see. I’ve been thinking about having someone else come in here to talk to you.”

“I don’t need anyone else.”

“I can only be here a few hours a day. Do you really want to spend over twenty hours a day alone?”

“It’s for the best.”

“Why?”

“Again, Doctor. I don’t deserve anything else.”

“Extreme isolation isn’t good for you. How about if, for an hour a day, we take you out to the general area? Just an hour. You don’t have to speak. Just be around other people. Please, Sherlock.”

“I don’t have to speak?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Maybe. It would be good to get out of bed. Maybe I can sit in my wheelchair by the window for awhile each day.”

Dr. Cooper helped Sherlock get into his wheelchair and pushed him to the window. When the doctor left, Sherlock closed his eyes and started remembering playing at night in front of the window at 221B. He was swaying with the music, lost in it.

 

Mycroft received a call from Dr. Cooper. “Ah yes, Doctor. How’s my brother?”

“We had some good sessions today. I’m trying to get him to come out for at least an hour a day to the general room. He also has a request. We talked about what he could do. I want him to have something to turn his mind to. His depression is far worse than it’s been since he was last in the institution. I suggested writing a book about his cases. I suggested he and John work on them. So he wants his files and a computer that has a program that can transcribe his voice.”

“I’ll make sure he gets that. I am concerned with the depression. He’s struggled with it so much all his life.”

“I’m trying some stronger meds and more therapy. I also want to ask you to ask his friends and family to do something. He loves all of you so much but believes that no one cares about him with nearly the same amount of feeling. I’d like you, his parents, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg to write him and tell him what he means to you. It doesn’t have to be all good — it’s important that it’s honest. I truly believe once we can get his mood stabilized, the absolute best thing for him is to be home with his family and friends. I don’t like this isolation he’s putting himself through. He’s punishing himself, at least that’s how it appears.”

“For what?”

“Honestly, I think he’s punishing himself for getting kidnapped.”

“Why would he blame himself for that?”

“He thinks he’s useless, Mr. Holmes. Depression can twist your mind, and I think this is part of that.” 

“I’m concerned. Very concerned with my brother’s mental health. In the past, he turned to drugs when it got to be too much. He can’t do that now, which is good, but he needs something. If the book can occupy his mind, it might help.”

“I’ve also asked him to think of something to help him. He’s going to try closing his eyes and remembering himself playing his violin.”

“That might work. I’ll speak to his friends and my parents about the letters. I’ll make sure to get his files and a computer for him. I’ll have them delivered by morning.” 

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in his head with his music. An orderly brought him his dinner and put him back to bed. The evening was spent listening to a few symphonies. When the nurse brought his meds, he asked for a sleeping pill. He wanted to see if he could go back to the dream he’d had that morning of he and John.

It was a mostly dreamless night, but towards morning pictures began to flash in his mind. 

“Sherlock!” he heard John’s voice yelling as he ran up the stairs at 221B. It was right after he’d solved the Moriarty ‘Miss Me’ mystery and had been pardoned by the British government. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table working on an experiment. He hadn’t slept in days. The case had been a hard one, and the spectre of Moriarty had been bothering him.

John came charging into the room. He looked angry.

“What’s wrong, John?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock looked confused. “Working on an experiment. Why?”

“Not that. I’m talking about this.” He waved a piece of paper.

Sherlock had no idea what the paper was. “What is it?”

“It’s a love letter for God’s sake. What were you thinking?”

“I . . . Who’s it for? Who wrote it?”

“Are you kidding me?” John looked at him incredulously. He started to read, ‘My dearest John, I’m not one to wax poetic, but I have something to tell you. From the day I met you, I knew that I loved you. I’ve denied it for so long but I can’t and I won’t anymore. I always thought I was asexual and not interested in romantic love, but I can’t say that anymore. I love you, John. You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. When I came back from my hiatus, I had planned to offer myself to you. I never wanted anyone but you. But you were with Mary. You have no idea how hard it was to stand beside you and watch you marry someone else. I want you to be happy. I hope we can still be friends. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you, but I needed to tell you. I will forever love you. Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth was open. He didn’t remember writing that at all. Could he have? He was absolutely exhausted. Could he have written it and sent it and not remembered? “I . . . I don’t even remember writing it. I . . . I’ve been exhausted. I might have written and sent it. I don’t know.”

“Is it true?” John said angrily. “Are you in love with me?”

“Yes. I’ve loved you since we met, John.”

“And you want to have sex with me?”

“Yes.”

John’s face was thunderous. “Do you honestly think I’d fuck you? How do you expect me to be friends? Always thinking you want to fuck me? I want you to leave me alone. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Sherlock felt tears filling his eyes. “John, please. Please don’t leave me. I won’t ever say anything. I promise.” He stood up but wavered back and forth on his feet as he felt light headed. 

“Are you high?” John asked angrily and suspiciously.

“No . . . No. I haven’t taken anything.”

John looked at the dark circles around his eyes. “How long since you slept?”

“Three, maybe four days.”

“And when did you last eat.”

“Before that.”

John shook his head. He crumpled up the letter and threw it at Sherlock. “Take this back. I don’t want it.”

Sherlock moved towards John, reaching out with a shaking hand. “Please John. Please forgive me.” He touched John’s sleeve.

John pulled away violently. “Don’t touch me.”

Sherlock fell to the floor as he lost his balance. He looked up, his face wet with tears. “Please don’t leave me.”

John dug out his keys and pulled off the keys to the front door and the flat. He threw them on the floor. “I won’t be back.”

“Please John. You’re all I have. I’ll be all alone.” He reached out to John.

“I . . . don’t . . . care,” John said viciously before he slammed the door and stormed downstairs.

Sherlock sobbed. He picked up the crumpled letter. It was his handwriting. He didn’t remember it. His John. His John was gone. John hated Sherlock because he loved him. 

The pain in Sherlock’s chest was almost too much to bear. He’d never believed in broken hearts but his certainly felt like it. He couldn’t . . . he couldn’t live like this. He couldn’t live with John hating him.

He didn’t have the energy to get to his feet so he crawled on his hands and knees to his bedroom. He opened the wardrobe door and pulled out a shoebox from the back and took a notebook from the pile at the front. He opened it and took a pen out of his dressing gown pocket.

With a shaking hand, he wrote, “I’m sorry. I can’t live in a world where John hates me for loving him. I’ll love you forever, John. Goodbye. SH”

He opened the box and pulled out a baggie of cocaine. He dumped it on top of the box cover and did line after line until he lost count. Then he pulled out a syringe and a bottle of morphine. He filled it as full as he could. With his hand trembling, it was hard to hit a vein but he did and plunged it home. He filled the syringe once more and plunged the needle into his arm again. He could feel the drugs working.

He lay down on the floor, curling into a fetal position. He took his mobile out of his dressing gown pocket and opened it to a photo he’d taken of John smiling at him. He wanted John’s smile to be the last thing he saw. 

He could feel his heart slowing, his breath becoming shallower. “I love you,” he whispered. 

He felt the numbness spreading through his body. He was cold. He could feel his whole body shaking. The mobile slipped from his hand, and he closed his eyes, the sight of John’s smile all he could see.

He heard feet coming up the stairs. Maybe John had changed his mind?

The footfalls stopped at his door.

“Oh, Little Brother, what have you done?”

He heard Mycroft come close and kneel down. He felt his brother take him into his arms.

“Don’t go, Little Brother. Please don’t leave.”

Sherlock tried to speak but all he could say was “Jaw . . .”

“John? What did he . . .” Mycroft stopped. Apparently he saw the note.

“Hate me,” Sherlock struggled to say. 

Mycroft made a phone call. “I need an ambulance at two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street! Overdose! Now. I need you here now!” He turned back to his brother. “Why Sherlock? Why would he hate you?”

“I love him.”

“He hates you because you love him?”

Sherlock nodded. It was getting harder to breathe. His chest hurt.

“Bye . . . My,” he whispered.

He could feel the blackness coming for him. He welcomed it with open arms.

“No. No. Sherlock. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” He heard Mycroft but it was like he was listening through water.

As the blackness finally took the pain away, the last thought he had was “John.”

 

Sherlock woke up screaming. “John . . . John . . . John!”

An orderly came charging into the room. Sherlock was thrashing.

“Calm down, sir. You need to calm down. You’re alright.”

Sherlock looked at him, coming to himself.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Oh God.”

“It’s alright,” the orderly said, patting him on the shoulder. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Please. My head hurts. Can I have something for it?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock laid there watching the sun come up. Troubled by the dream, he couldn’t relax, sure that this was much more real then the dream he had of making love with John.

“Oh, John,” he whispered, looking at his picture.

The orderly came back to take him to the bathroom and get him bathed, shaved, teeth brushed, and changed. By the time they were done, breakfast was ready and the orderly fed Sherlock.

Dr. Cooper came in an hour later. Sherlock had asked the orderly to put him in his wheelchair. He sat looking out the window, lost in thought.

“I hear you had a nightmare.”

Sherlock nodded and looked down at his hands as Dr. Cooper turned his wheelchair around and sat down beside him.

“It’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded. He told Dr. Cooper what happened in the dream.

“It was a dream. Why are you so concerned?”

“I . . . I’m afraid that John feels much more like he did in this dream then in the good one. I’m afraid he hates me because I love him.”

“I really don’t think that his actions since you told him would suggest that he hates you.”

“Perhaps not. I miss him. I want him to be here.”

“You don’t have to be without him, Sherlock. You don’t have to be here. I can monitor you and your new meds from your flat. You can go home anytime.” 

“No. It’s still better for them. I can’t ever go home. I can’t see them.”

“You need to stop torturing yourself.”

“My subconscious seems to be doing a good job of doing that. I’d like to be happy. I really, really would. But I know that I’m not meant to be happy. If I suffer, if I sacrifice everything for the people I love, I can protect them. They’ll be safe if I suffer.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“It feels true. I need them to be safe.”

“Sherlock, the love you show for your friends and family is nothing short of amazing. But to feel that you have to suffer for them is going too far.” 

“What does it matter now? I’ve been tortured; I’ve been shot; I’ve been stabbed; I’ve died; and I’ve killed to protect them. I lost everything to keep them safe. Now I’m keeping them safe by keeping them away from me. From not having to be subjected to me, to have to look after me.”

“Don’t you think they want to, after all you did for them?”

“I didn’t do it because I thought they would owe me something.” 

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I cared about them and wanted them to be safe.”

“Couldn’t they want to look after you because they love you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“As I’ve said repeatedly, I don’t deserve it.”

“Your brother brought your files and computer. He also brought a letter. I asked him to ask your friends to write to you. I’m going to give you one a day as they come in. Here’s the first one.” He handed Sherlock the envelope.

He recognized Molly’s writing.

“I’ll leave you alone to read it. I’ll open it for you.” He opened the envelope and handed Sherlock the letter.

 

My dearest Sherlock,

Your brother asked me to write a letter to you. It’s the hardest and the easiest thing I’ve ever done. It’s hard because I’m afraid I’ll say something wrong (you know me). It also makes me sad that you don’t know how much you mean to all of us.

It’s the easiest thing because it’s easy to tell you what you mean to me.

I know I used to make a bit of a fool of myself making moon eyes at you. I really did care about you. And I know that you didn’t really understand how I felt until you met John. And then I realized your heart was someone else’s. Remember when I told you that you looked sad when John wasn’t looking. I think part of that was knowing you loved him, but he didn’t feel the same way.

Do you have any idea how it makes me feel when you told me that I mattered and that I always had? You couldn’t have possibly made me happier to know that you thought that. That you trusted me to help you at St. Bart’s when you fell. The trust that you had in me.

When you came back, you came to me to patch up the stitches that John opened up and to cry in my arms because he was with Mary. And when you wanted me to work with you and told me not to act like John but to be myself, I felt so happy.

You’ve treated me badly sometimes. It hasn’t all been perfect (the Christmas party comes to mind) but the good far outweighs the bad.

I’ve gotten over the crush, but I do love you, Sherlock, and I always will. You’re like a very protective older brother.

I know that those awful men offered to let you go in exchange for John, Mycroft, Greg, or I. You saved me from that. And I can’t tell you how much it means to me.

Please don’t isolate yourself in the institution. Please let us be with you. We all love you, Sherlock. We all want you in our lives. I know you’re having a hard time, but the person behind all of this will have to go through all of us before we let them hurt you again.

Come home, Sherlock. Come home to the people who love you.

If you need anything, I’ll be there as soon as possible. Please remember how much we love you, how much I love you.

Always,

Molly

 

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. Dear Molly. She was like the little sister he never had. And he did love her. He’d always thought she could never forgive him for what he’d done to her but it appeared that she had and even could deeply about him. Molly so wanted him to come home. And, truth be told, he missed her. But it was what it was. It was best for her never to see him again.

When Dr. Cooper came back, Sherlock asked him to put the letter back in the envelope and in the drawer. 

Dr. Cooper brought in a full armful of files and helped Sherlock back into bed so he could use his table to read them. He pulled out his new computer and put it on the table by his bed so he could use it when he wanted it.

He and Dr. Cooper talked for a bit and worked on exercises for his self-esteem.

By mid-morning, Sherlock asked for a cup of tea and a chance to work on his files. One of the nurses came in with his tea and helped him drink it. He sorted through the files and picked a few to start with. The others he piled on the extra table they’d brought in for him beside the bed. 

He asked the nurse to get him out his computer and plug it in. She did and turned it on for him, plugging in the earpiece and placing it around his ear. 

He accessed the writing program and began to speak. 

“Notes for Book 1 by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” He watched the letters appear on the screen. “The Case of the Emerald Lilies.” He went through the notes carefully, noting things that would help write the story. It was a case that had taken place before Sherlock had met John so it wasn’t on the blog. He made pages and pages of notes, then rearranged them before he opened the email link. He said John’s email address and put in a subject line.

 

Dear John:

Dr. Cooper had an idea that I could start writing books about my cases. He thinks it could be a new career for me. Something for me to do. But I know I’m no writer, at least not like you. I’m attaching a file with some ideas. It’s from a case I solved before I met you.

Could you have a look at it and let me know if you think there’s the makings of a book here? If so, I’ll get started on a first draft. Once I get it done, would you look at it? Thanks.

SH

 

Sherlock clumsily took the headset off and closed the lid of the laptop. He was tired, but he was afraid that the dream would come back. 

Dr. Cooper came back in the afternoon and the two talked for over an hour. Sherlock seemed excited by the idea of doing a book. He thought it was something he could try at least. But it all depended on if John would help him.

Dr. Cooper asked him to come into the common room for a bit, just to be around other people.

Sherlock looked doubtful. “Will you stay with me?”

“No one will hurt you.”

“I just don’t want anyone to laugh at me.”

“Don’t worry.”

Dr. Cooper helped him into the wheelchair and took him down the hall to the common room. 

There were dozens of men and women wandering around. Some were sitting in front of the telly. Others were playing games or looking out the window.

Sherlock wasn’t afraid, not exactly. He just didn’t want anyone to recognize him or laugh at him.

“Hey, Dr. Cooper,” one of the patients called.

“Hello, Scott. How are you feeling today?”

“Good. Good. Hi,” he said to Sherlock. “I’m Scott.”

“My name is . . . William.”

“Do you want to help with this puzzle?”

“Sorry, I can’t,” Sherlock said, holding up his hands. “My hands don’t work right.”

“Ah man. I’m sorry. I know.” He stood up and went over to the corner. He returned with a checker set. “You can point and show me where you want to move. Okay?”

Sherlock looked up at Scott. He seemed genuinely interested in playing the game with him. Sherlock smiled a bit and said, “Alright.”

Scott set up the board. “You go first, William.”

Sherlock pointed at a checker and then a square. It took awhile, but they go through the game. Sherlock let Scott win. The next game, he won. They played a few more games before both tired of it. Sherlock cast a look at the puzzle pieces.

“I think that piece goes there,” he said pointing. They worked slowly on the puzzle until they got it together.

Sherlock looked up and realized it was four thirty. He’d actually enjoyed being with Scott and making small talk.

He looked around. Dr. Cooper wasn’t there.

“Nearly dinner time,” Scott said. “Dr. Cooper’s not here. Want me to take you back to your room?”

“Alright.”

Sherlock and Scott chatted as they got to Sherlock’s room and went inside.

“Nice room,” Scott said. “Want me to help you into bed?”

“Sure.”

He pulled Sherlock’s blankets up. “Is that your boyfriend?” he asked, pointing to John’s picture.

“My best friend.”

“I better get back to my room. It was nice this afternoon. Will you be out in the common room tomorrow? I can introduce you to some of the others.”

“I . . . I think I will. Thanks for spending time with me. It was nice.”

“It was nice talking to you. See you tomorrow, William.”

After dinner, Sherlock was happy to see an email from John.

 

Sherlock,

I was so happy to see your email today. I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to start writing about your cases. There’s certainly a lot to choose from. I’ll have a look at these notes tonight. I’d be happy to work with you on the book.

Sherlock, how are you? We all miss you and want you to come home. I know you think you’re doing what’s best for us but it’s not. I worry about you all the time. You’re my best friend. I need to know that you’re happy. And I need to know that you’re not alone. Please change your mind and come home. Mrs. Hudson’s lost without you. Your brother is even harder to get along with. And I miss you. I miss you so much. Please reconsider.

John

 

Sherlock felt tears prickling in his eyes. John missed him. But he knew that this was for the best. If he hurt John a bit now, it would be better than really hurting him in the future. 

He opened the email and hit reply, clumsily putting his headset on.

 

John,

I’m glad you thing the book is a good idea. I’m going to start putting together some things tomorrow.

I’m sorry. I can’t come home. We both know, in the long run, that this is for the best. You don’t need me messing up your life and you and Mary will be much happier without me in it. This way you can spend all of your time with Mary and your children, not with some useless guy in a wheelchair.

I’ll send you what I’ve written tomorrow.

SH

 

He wanted more than anything to call John and tell him to come and get him and take him home. But he had to be strong. He looked over at John’s picture. “I’m sorry, love. I can’t. I can’t ruin your life anymore than I already have.”

He shut the computer off and set it on the table by his side along with the headset. He did his best to roll over onto his side, though his legs stayed pretty much where they were, twisted to one side. He looked out at the rain drizzling down the window.

He reached out and hit the call button.

“Can I help you, Mr. Holmes?”

“I don’t want to bother anyone, but could someone bring me a cup of tea?”

“I’ll have an orderly bring you one.”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t really want tea. It tasted bad here, nothing like John and Mrs. Hudson’s. He just wanted someone to sit with. The orderly came in a few minutes later and helped Sherlock drink his tea.

He wasn’t very talkative but Sherlock just liked having someone in the room. When he was done, he asked the orderly to help him to the loo and then back to bed.

It was only early evening. He wasn’t tired. So he sat up and opened the computer. He knew he shouldn’t, but he searched for the video again.

He watched again as he was tortured the first time. He went to the end and watched them tear off his fingers. Then he watched them pound his head into the concrete. They turned him over and started slicing his face before leaving him there in a pool of his own blood. He reversed it and watched them cut his face apart again. He hand reached up and touched the scars. 

He turned the sound up and listened to them laughing as they walked away. Laughing at the broken, mutilated man they’d left behind.

He reversed it again and watched them cut off his fingers, looking at the hand and recalling the pain as each one was snapped off.

He watched them ruin his legs and feet. 

He watched them rape him time and time again.

And he’d listen when they’d gone. Listen to himself quietly cry, begging John to come. He could feel the silent tears rolling down his cheeks. A nurse came through the door. He quickly turned the computer off and wiped his face.

“Watching something sad?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said quietly as he took his medication. She helped him lie on his side and turned out the light. 

It had been a hard day. Sherlock felt lonely, confused, and sad. He knew that he had to get over the loneliness. It was his new and most frequent companion from now on. He could talk to John through the computer but only about the book. He couldn’t allow more. He could go out and play games with the other patients and maybe talk a bit but that was all. He couldn’t make friends here or he’d end up hurting them too.

He closed his eyes and swore, for just a second, he could feel his fingers all in place again. He knew it wasn’t real, but he didn’t care.

That night, he lay awake until nearly four, before he dropped into a fitful, uneasy sleep full of dreams of laughter and dark figures.

He woke when the orderly came in to get him bathed and dressed.

He was quiet that morning and wouldn’t eat his breakfast. He took his meds with a small drink of water. He sat in his wheelchair staring at his hands.

He heard the door open. “Feeling better this morning?” he heard Dr. Cooper say.

He shook his head.

Dr. Cooper turned him around and sat down beside him. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t want to speak, afraid he’d start to cry. He wanted John. He wanted John to be sitting there. He wanted John to take him in his arms and hold him tight, telling him everything would be alright. But that would never, ever happen again. Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking of John’s smile, his warm body, his hands, his smell. He felt lost, without him, adrift like his whole world was gone. He sniffed.

“What is it?” Dr. Cooper asked. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock pulled back. He didn’t want Dr. Cooper’s touch, just John. “Sherlock, you’re worrying me.”

But Sherlock didn’t care. All he cared about at that moment was John. His hair, his face, his body, his voice. And he’d never see or hear or feel him again.

He watched as one tear splashed on his hand. He hung his head even further and drop after drop fell on his hands. He sniffed, afraid he was going to start sobbing.

“I . . . I . . . I need something,” he whispered.

“What do you need? I can get it for you.” He could hear the concern in Dr. Cooper’s voice.

“I . . . I need John.”

“Do you want me to call for him to come?”

“N . . . no. He can’t come. I can’t see him ever again.” He could hear his voice breaking. “I . . . I need something to hold. Something to take his place.”

“How about a teddy bear?”

“I . . . I’m not a ch . . . child.”

“No. But you can hug it every time you miss John. It’s soft and warm.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “Okay. Don’t tell my brother. He’ll l . . . laugh at me.”

“I won’t. I’ll just be a minute, okay?”

“I want it to be blond, like John.”

“Alright.”

Dr. Cooper stepped out of the room. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and quietly sobbed. He wanted John. He needed John. But John was lost to him forever. He slowly started to shiver and rock back and forth. “John,” he whispered over and over.

Dr. Cooper came back into the room. He sat down beside Sherlock and tried to reach out to him. Sherlock flinched away. Cooper stood up and got a blanket from the wardrobe, wrapping it around Sherlock. “It’s alright. It’s alright. Please let me call John. He’ll be here in a little while and all of this will go away. You can be happy. You can have your friends and your family. Don’t deny yourself their love out of some misplaced sense of worthlessness. Please Sherlock. You’re hurting yourself so much. Please stop this. Let me call John.”

Sherlock couldn’t hear Dr. Cooper. He squeezed his eyes shut, and John’s face was there. He could see John sitting by him, reaching out to hold him. And when he finally touched him, Sherlock felt warm and safe, like nothing or no one could ever hurt him. “Oh John,” he whispered. “Don’t let me go.”

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” Dr. Cooper asked, his concern growing by the moment. He went out and called for an orderly. “Help me get him into bed.”

They lifted Sherlock into bed and covered him up. He didn’t notice. He was in John’s arms. That’s all that mattered. John was whispering to him. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you now.”

“Don’t go, John. Don’t leave me,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Never. I’ll never leave you. You’re my Sherlock. Where else would I be?”

“My John. Oh, my John.”

“Always yours. I’ll always be yours.”

He could feel someone shaking him. 

“Sherlock, you need to come out of it. Sherlock, please.” 

“No. Let me stay with John,” he whispered, clutching John closer to him. “Don’t go. John, don’t go.”

John smiled at him and kissed him gently on the forehead. “I’ll be back, love.”

“No. Don’t go, John . . . John!” Sherlock held out his arms, trying to get John to come back.

“Sherlock, calm down.”

Sherlock felt himself being held down. It was them! “No! Don’t hurt me! Please, please, not anymore!”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. It’s alright,” a soothing voice said.

He felt a needle enter his arm. He started to feel incredibly tired. “Please, please make John come back,” he whispered before he fell asleep.

When he woke, hours later, an orderly was sitting beside him.

“Mr. Holmes. How are you feeling?” The orderly stood up and took his pulse.

Sherlock was confused. He didn’t remember what happened. Then it hit him — the incredible sadness, the overwhelming, unbearable sadness. He rolled away, as best he could, from the orderly.

The orderly got up and left, returning a few minutes later, with Dr. Cooper.

“Sherlock, how are you feeling?”

Sherlock ignored him. John, he wanted John. 

“Do you remember what happened?”

Sherlock nodded. “M’sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s alright. I just want you to feel better. You haven’t eaten. You must be very hungry. Shall I have a meal brought up for you?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“You have to eat. You really need to eat, Sherlock. Look, I have something for you.” Dr. Cooper moved around so Sherlock could see him. He held up a blond bear with glittering blue eyes and a smile. “Here’s your bear.”

Sherlock reached out with a trembling hand and ran his fingers over the fur. “He . . . he’s soft, like John’s hair,” he whispered. “C . . . can I h . . . hold him?”

“He’s yours, Sherlock.” Dr. Cooper handed the bear to him.

Sherlock looked at the bear for a moment and then crushed it to his chest. “H . . . he smells like John.”

“I called John and asked him what aftershave he wore. I put some on him.”

“Th . . . thank you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. And he almost felt it again, the feel of home.

“You’re welcome. Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

“S . . . sad. I . . . I . . . miss John.”

“You can have John. Just let me call him.”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“Alright. You have to eat now.”

“Will you take the bear if I don’t?”

“No. He’s yours.”

“M . . . maybe a little.”

Dr. Cooper smiled. He went to the door and the orderly brought him in lunch. Dr. Cooper sat beside him and helped him sit. “You better put down the bear or he’ll get dirty.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock put John down beside him. Dr. Cooper fed him and Sherlock ate. He wasn’t hungry, but he was half afraid Cooper would take John despite what he said.

When he was done, he asked for a cup of tea. He was thirsty. As Cooper helped him drink his tea, he handed him a letter. “This arrived for you today.”

Sherlock looked at the envelope and recognized his mother’s handwriting. “I . . . I can’t read that. Wh . . . what if she says she doesn’t want to see me again?”

“You don’t know that’s what’s in here.”

“I . . . I don’t think . . . I’m not strong enough.”

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

Sherlock reluctantly nodded his head.

Dr. Cooper opened the letter.

“My dearest, darling boy,” Cooper read. “It certainly doesn’t sound bad. Here you read it.” He handed it to Sherlock. 

He took it and began to read.

 

My dearest, darling boy,

I can’t tell you how devastated we felt when Mike told us about your note to us. Do you truly think we’re embarrassed and ashamed of you? Do you really think we don’t love you? Oh, my poor, poor boy. I know this was entirely my fault and I will never, ever forgive myself for it. Of course we love you. I think about you all the time. I know we haven’t been to visit or call you. I get so upset every time I think about what those animals did to my boy that I burst into tears. I didn’t want to take the chance of upsetting you more. That’s no excuse, I know. But we will always, always love you, Sherlock. You’re our boy, our curly-haired, brilliant, mischievous boy.

I know we made so many mistakes with you in the past. I know those children in school hurt you. I know that we should have done more. And when you moved to London, we should have supported you more. You tried to be defiant. You tried to push us away, telling us to go on with our lives.

But I knew. I knew the pain that you were hiding. I could see my sweet, happy little boy becoming quiet and withdrawn, especially after Redbeard died.

We tried. Your father and I tried to help you. But your brother kept telling you not to care, not to feel. You tried, but I could see how hurt you were. And, when you turned to drugs, we made so many mistakes trying to help you.

And now, we’ve made mistakes again. It took a lot for you to forgive us (if you truly have) for the institution we put you in. And now, we’ve hurt you so much with our absence. 

Oh my boy, if I could change it all in a moment I would. I would be with you always. Helping you, holding you when you were upset.

It’s so wonderful to know that you still love us, after all of our failings. And rest assured, you are so loved, so entirely and completely loved by us. Always.

Please come out of the institution. Please come home or at least let us come and see you. I want to be with you. Please at least consider it. 

Love forever,

Mummy & Daddy

 

Sherlock looked up at Dr. Cooper. “They . . . they don’t hate me. Mummy said they didn’t come because they were afraid they’d upset me. My . . . my parents love me,” he sobbed.

“I was willing to bet you that they did.”

“I . . . I was so sure they were embarrassed by me. Ashamed of what was done to me.”

“You see, Sherlock? You are loved by your friends and your family. Locking yourself away from them isn’t helping anyone. It’s causing pain for you and for them. They miss you. You think that they are better off without you, but you’re hurting them.”

“It’s better to hurt them a bit now then hurt them forever.” Sherlock squeezed his John bear tight, inhaling the smell, letting it wash over him and calm him. “I’m not me anymore. I don’t like this me. I’m less than I was.”

“Yes, you can’t do the things you could do before. I know that it frustrates you and makes you angry. If it had been an accident, then that’s one thing. But this was deliberately done to hurt you. You have to accept the fact that just because you’re different doesn’t make you not you.”

“But I want to be myself. I want to be Sherlock Holmes again.”

“Sherlock, it may sound harsh, but you won’t ever be that person again. You’re going to be you. There may come a time when the nerve damage will heal enough that you’ll be able to use your hands. Cloning may advance to a stage that you can regrow your fingers, fix your legs and feet, even fix the pathways in your brain that were destroyed. And that’s definitely something to hope for — especially given your brother’s connections. But for now you have to accept that this is what you are. You can’t live in the past or in the future. All you have is right now. And I know you’re in pain. I know it takes all your strength to get through a day. You don’t see the point of living right now. It’s hard — it’s incredibly hard. But, Sherlock, you are alive; you are breathing; your heart is beating. This is what you have. But you also have people who love you. And yes I’m sure they do miss the old you. But they love you and they want you to be happy. They want to be with you. Hiding yourself in here isn’t helping you. You’re isolated. You’re lonely. You can’t live like this.”

Sherlock nodded. What Dr. Cooper said made sense, but this was the only way to keep them safe, to keep them happy.

“Will you think about it? Your parents obviously want to see you. Your brother and John call every day to see if you’re alright.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, very quietly.

Dr. Cooper said, “Good. Listen, you didn’t put anything in your journal for yesterday.”

Sherlock wanted Cooper to go away. He just wanted to be with the only John he had left. “Meeting Scott.”

“And why was that positive?” Cooper asked as he wrote in the journal.

“He was nice to me. He played games with me and let me help with his puzzle.”

“Do you want to go back to the common room?”

“No. Not now. Maybe later. I want to be alone. Please.”

“Alright. Just for a bit. I know you’re feeling terribly sad and depressed. I don’t want you to be alone too long.”

Sherlock hugged the bear to him. “Oh, John. Oh, John. I miss you. I want you here. I want to be home in bed with you holding me.”

He laid there for a long time, his eyes closed, inhaling the scent of John’s aftershave. He wanted to go inside his head, ignore everything else — ignore the pain, everyone around him, the past, the future. Just inside his head with John. He saw John standing there with a smile on his face. He came towards Sherlock and picked him up. He carried him to Sherlock’s bed and laid him down. He lay down beside him and pulled Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock felt so wonderful surrounded by John.

“Oh John. I’m so cozy.”

“I’m happy then,” John said. 

“Don’t leave me,” Sherlock said.

“I won’t. I promise. I’ll never leave. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

“I want you forever.”

“Then you’ll have me,” John said and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.

He lay there, happy. He couldn’t feel anything but John. There was no pain. He couldn’t feel the blankets for smell the hospital room. Just John. His John.

There were people talking around him, but he ignored them.

“John, make them go away,” he whispered as he snuggled into John’s warm body.

“Bugger off,” John told the voices as Sherlock laughed.

There were more voices around him. He could barely feel them touching him. He concentrated on his John. He laid there so unbelievably happy.

“Oh John, I’m so happy. Don’t ever leave me.”

“I won’t.”

This was the happiest Sherlock remembered ever being. 

Finally, someone shook him hard.

He blinked and John was gone. He was in the hospital room. The pain hit him, hard. Dr. Cooper was still shaking him.

“John! John! Come back! Come back! You promised you wouldn’t leave!” Sherlock cried.

Dr. Cooper let go of him. “Sherlock, calm down. It wasn’t real. John wasn’t here.”

“It doesn’t matter. I was with John. He was holding me. There wasn’t any pain. I was happy. Why? Why can’t I stay there? Why?” he said as he began to cry. 

“It wasn’t real. You were inside your own head. It’s not healthy.”

“But I was happy. I was with John. It didn’t hurt anymore.”

“You can’t live in a fantasy world.”

“Get out! Leave me alone! Go away!” Sherlock pulled away from Cooper.

“Calm down.”

“Go away! I want to go back to John. I’m safe there. I’m in a mental institution. I might as well live there with him. You can be free to look after other people and just leave me strapped to the bed and drooling.”

“I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

“You don’t have any say. I found someplace where I’m happy. And I can stay there until I die.”

“That’s no way to live.”

“I don’t have a life. I have pain. I have loneliness. At least there I’ll have John.”

“You can’t give up hope.”

Sherlock laughed. “Hope is a lie. It doesn’t exist. It’s like believing in the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny,” he said bitterly. “You won’t let me have peace. None of you will let me have that. You all think you know what’s best for me. You won’t let me die. You don’t want me to live in my head with John. All of you seem to think it’s best for me to suffer. That I live thirty or forty years in pain and alone. If you won’t let me die, I can live here in my head. You take care of my body until it dies. They will all forget Sherlock Holmes, and I can sleep beneath that headstone in the cemetery.”

“Sherlock, no one wants you to suffer.”

“It is what you want. You want me to continue this half-life, settle for the pain and humiliation, dependent on my friends and family until they come to resent me and slowly fade out of my life, alone with no love ever. Doesn’t that sound like suffering?”

“It sounds like accepting what happened to you.”

“You’re spouting platitudes. I speak the truth. This isn’t the only mental institution in London and you aren’t the only psychiatrist.”

“No psychiatrist will condone this.”

“Maybe I can find one who cares what I think. Someone who wants me to be happy.”

“I do care what you think.”

“Apparently not.”

“Your self-loathing has led you to this. You think you aren’t worth caring about so you want to isolate yourself, live in a world where you can make yourself happy. If you were equipped to deal with it and your depression, then you can have a life.”

“An empty life with no purpose.”

“How about your book?”

“And then what? Can you see me touring with the book? Giving readings? I’d rather die in here then have people come to a book reading just to stare at the mutilated consulting detective. I can’t tell anymore when people lie to me. How can I trust anyone? I want to stay here where no one will make fun of me. No one will call me names. No one will hurt me again.”

“But you’ll be alone.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

“How can you say that?”

“Past experience. There’s something wrong with me. Please go away. Please leave me alone with John.”

“I can’t. I can’t let you do that.”

“You can’t stop me. I’ll have John. I’ll be with him. I’ll be free.” Sherlock smiled.

“Don’t force me to . . .”

“To what? You’ll have to drug me. And I would still be able to go.” Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled again. John was standing there, his arms open and smiling. “John,” he whispered as John picked him up again and lay in bed with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad that you're enjoying the story. I love the comments!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to realize how much his friends and family love and miss him, and he makes some decisions that will change his circumstances. But something rocks him to his very core and threatens his recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated mature for language and certain events. Please pay attention to the warnings.

Dr. Cooper stood up and looked down at Sherlock, who laid there with a smile on his face. He didn’t know what to do. Sherlock was happy where he was. And given his unending physical pain, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to leave him there for awhile.

Now that Sherlock was unresponsive, he could contact Mycroft for advice. He pulled out his mobile. 

“Dr. Cooper, is something wrong?”

“In a way, yes. Your brother is extremely depressed today and has retreated inside his head. He’s set up something inside where he’s with John, where there’s no pain and where he’s happy. It took quite a bit before I could rouse him out of it. He wants to spend the rest of his life there. At least that’s what he told me.”

“If he’s happy and pain free, what’s the harm? He’ll grow bored eventually.”

“I’m very concerned about him. He’s pushing all of you away because he thinks you’re all going to leave and this is the only way he has to protect himself. He’s hurting himself because he believes you’re all going to hurt him.”

Mycroft sighed. “My brother has always ended up pushing people away. I’m afraid that’s partly my fault and partly the fault of the hooligans who tormented him at school. He’s allowed himself to start trusting people when he met Gregory Lestrade, and I thought he’d learned that people could care about him. And when he met John . . . well, I thought he was done with it. He fought so hard for John to take him back as a friend when he came back from Serbia. He was so frightened of losing him. But now that he has nothing to offer anyone, he thinks he’s useless and the old feelings have come back. Let him have his peace for awhile. He deserves this.”

“I’m concerned about him withdrawing from reality.”

“Until you’ve convinced him to see us, it might be the best place for him. He’s safe and warm and protected, and in his head John loves him. My brother is suffering, Doctor. Physically, he’s in an enormous amount of pain. He’s suffering mentally and emotionally from what was done to him both then and continuing now. Let him have his John. Let him be happy for just a little while.”

“Alright, but I need to wake him for his meals, his meds, and his sessions.”

 

It didn’t seem any time before the shaking pulled Sherlock away from John.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“I’ve been talking with your brother. Listen, I’ll agree to this but only on the condition that you wake up for meals, meds, and your two-hour sessions.”

“Go away. I want John.”

“You get your dinner now. Eat it all. Then you can go back until meds time.”

Sherlock reluctantly let Copper feed him. But as soon as the last bite was taken, he closed his eyes and lay down in John’s arms again. The only thing that woke him was Dr. Cooper shaking him.

He’d do as Cooper asked and days went by. He lost all concept of time. But he didn’t care. The world of he and John was all he wanted. The outside world was one of pain. The world with John was happy and warm and loving. There was no question about which he preferred.

He’d eat quickly, let them clean him, go to the loo when they told him to. He’d answer the questions Cooper asked. He’d do the exercises. He read the letter from Greg. 

 

Hey Lock,

Your brother asked me to write to you. I really miss you, kiddo. I remember the first time I laid eyes on you. You were so high, but you looked me up and down and told me everything about me. I probably shouldn’t have taken you in. But you were so thin, so fragile-looking, with that mop of greasy hair, those awful clothes, you looked so young, so lost. And I needed to help you. Why I took you home with me, I don’t know. My wife was so angry.

The way you ate, you couldn’t have eaten for days before, and you slept for three days straight. Nina told me you showered for almost an hour. You charmed her so much. Even though you were itching for another fix, you stayed and helped her with the dishes. Nina always had a soft spot for you after that.

And then you showed up at my next crime scene and deduced everything. You looked so happy when I praised you for catching things that no one else did. You looked like it was the first time anyone had ever praised you. And I’m guessing it was.

That’s when it hit me. If I could get you involved in cases, then you’d have a reason to get clean. I know it wasn’t easy, and I remember the relapses when you’d call me, afraid your brother would force you into rehab.

I always wanted to have a child but Nina and I never could. And I always thought of you as my son. I know we sometimes fought after you got more confident and took on the persona of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. And I know why you do it. Donovan’s got it all wrong. She always said you got off on it. But I know. I know that you wanted to help people, yes, but you also wanted to make me proud.

And you do. You make me so proud. Every day. I can never thank you enough for saving my life. And when you came back, I was so happy to see you. So relieved you were still alive.

I miss you, Sherlock. I look up at crime scenes expecting to see you swoop in in that coat of yours. But most of all, I miss you. I miss talking to you, seeing you. Please come out of the institution. Please come home to us. We love you. I love you, and I miss you.

Greg

 

Sherlock had cried when he read that letter. He’d thought of Greg as a father. Greg had saved his life in many ways. “And he loved me,” Sherlock thought.

“I have a few other letters for you to read. You’ve missed a few days. Do you want to read one more?”

“Okay.”

He picked up the letter Cooper handed him. He recognized Mary’s handwriting.

 

Dear Sherlock,

I know that we’ve had a few disagreements but please believe me, I’ve always loved you. That first night when we met, when I got into the cab with John, I told him that I liked you.

I know we’ve had a past. I know I hurt you. I can’t ever get that look of betrayal on your face out of my head. I truly didn’t want to shoot you. But you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I can never thank you enough for taking the case, for getting John to come back to me, and for taking care of us. That you were willing to die to protect us . . . I can’t thank you enough.

And I know it’s you who’s protecting me. Mycroft would have put me in the deepest, darkest hole and I’d never see the light of day for shooting you (if not worse). You gave me a life with John and with Rosie (and now with the new baby).

And I know what that’s cost you. I saw the look on your face when John and I took our vows. I know how badly it hurt you to see the man you love with all your heart marrying someone else. I know that your best man speech was your way of telling him. And you disappeared at the reception was your way of letting him go. I know that was hard. I don’t know, if it had been me, that I’d have had the strength to do it. You’re so brave, so giving, so loving. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I took John away from you.

If I thought, truly thought, for a second that leaving John would make everything alright, would help you, make you better, I think I’d really consider it. You’ve given so much to us and haven’t asked for anything in return. You haven’t even asked John to love you.

He does love you, you know, so much. And it’s hurting both of us so that you’ve locked yourself away. John is miserable. He, both of us, miss you. If you’re determined to be there, at least let him visit.

I know how much you hate being dependent on other people and I know how much you hate what they did to you. But we love you, Sherlock. We want to be there for you as you’ve always been there for us. Let us help you. Let us be with you. Think about it, please? Your goddaughter misses you so much. She wants to see you. And your future goddaughter or godson needs to see you when she or he is born.

Please, Sherlock. If for no other reason, come out for John. He feels like he’s let you down. He wants desperately to make this up to you. He feels guilty because he doesn’t feel the same way about you that you feel about him. He loves you like a brother, like a best friend. He would die for you. He’d kill for you. You’ve done so much for him, and he feels like he keeps letting you down. Please come back to him. There’s a huge, gaping Sherlock-sized hole in his heart, and only you can make him feel better.

I know you think that what you’re doing is protecting him, protecting all of us. He’s told me that you think all of us will grow tired of you and leave. Oh, Sherlock, John would cut out his own heart before he left you. Please come home to him. Please come home to all of us.

All my love,

Mary

 

 

Sherlock truly, truly regretted causing John any pain. He knew it wasn’t fair. But maybe Mary was wrong. He’d get over it. He’d gotten over Sherlock’s “death” eventually. He’d get over this. Especially with Mary and the children. He’d be too busy to think of Sherlock. He hadn’t cared after the wedding, not enough to even text Sherlock. It had hurt him deeply, but he’d never tell John that. 

“Well?” Dr. Cooper asked.

“It’s a very nice letter. They’re all so nice, but I can’t help but feel my brother told them what to write.”

“Do you think they aren’t capable of loving you?”

“Not this me. I despise myself. How could they love me?”

“Because you have no self-esteem, Sherlock. We’ve talked about this.”

“We’ve talked to death about it. You’ll never convince me that I’m not a horrible person. It’s no wonder John doesn’t love me.”

“But he does in your mind.”

“I’m living in a fantasy world in my head. It’s not real. It’ll never be real. But it’s the only thing that makes me happy, that gives me peace. I know I’m not good enough for John. I never will be. If I was, if I wasn’t dirty and awful, he’d love me. But he can’t.”

“You aren’t dirty.”

“Of course I am. They ruined me. They raped me over and over. I can’t imagine letting even John penetrate me.”

“There are other forms of sex besides penetration. Some gay couples never penetrate each other.”

“John is a very sexual person. He would want to be on top, I’m sure. I was prepared for that before. But now I can’t imagine doing it. Not that he probably would have wanted to fuck a virgin like me. I wish to hell that I’d at least masturbated. Now all sex . . . it just feels wrong. Even the idea of it.”

“Sex is something that’s completely normal. Almost all people engage in it, enjoy it. And just because you were raped . . . Sherlock, if John was sexually attracted to you, he’d be fighting to help you feel better.”

“It’s a moot point. There’s no point talking about it. No one wants me. No one ever will. So it’s all an academic argument. I might as well have been castrated. I have no use for sexual organs. I . . . I only ever wanted to be loved. I wanted John to love me. I wanted to someday maybe adopt a child or one of us could have one with a surrogate. I pictured a little black-haired boy who didn’t have to be tormented at school.”

“There’s no point in tormenting yourself like this. You don’t know what will happen in the future. There could be someone else. There could be a child. As far as I know, you can father a child. There’s no reason you couldn’t.” 

Sherlock laughed at him. “How the hell can I take care of a child? I can’t take care of myself. Who would want to take on looking after me and a baby? They killed my future. They killed all of me. I wanted love. But it was stupid. It was ridiculous. I’m not worth it. I never was and never will be. Please just let me go. In my head, I can have John. I can have my son. I can be free. I can live the life I wanted. The life I’ve suffered so much for. Don’t I deserve it? I know it’s fake but it’s all I have.”

“But that’s what it is — fake. How can you be happy there?”

“I’ll have John and my family. I won’t be in pain. I’ll be whole again. I can be a detective.” He hugged his bear to his chest. “It’s like none of this happened and my dearest wish came true. Isn’t that what anyone would want? If you were me, wouldn’t you?”

Dr. Cooper looked at him but remained silent.

“Don’t deny that you would. Goodnight Doctor.” Sherlock closed his eyes and was welcomed by a naked John holding his arms out to him.

“Welcome home, love,” John said as he enfolded Sherlock in a tight hug.

“And what a welcome,” he said, bending his head and kissing John softly on the lips.

“I got us some wine. Thought we could take a nice bath.”

“Just the thing.” John kissed him again and slowly peeled Sherlock’s clothes off. He took Sherlock’s hand and led him into the loo, lit with candles. He poured them each a glass of wine and handed one to Sherlock. He took a small sip. “Ah, a Chateau Mouton-Rothschild 1945. Perfect.” Sherlock stepped into the bath and leaned against the end of the tub. John smiled and stepped in, leaning his back against Sherlock.

“Ah, love. This feels so good. You feel so good,” Sherlock whispered as he kissed John’s neck. He wrapped his arm around him and sipped on his wine. He closed his eyes, feeling the length of John against him.

“I love you,” John said, his hand running down Sherlock’s leg.

“I love you too, always.”

Sherlock put down his glass and let his hands ghost over John’s chest. His lips travelled down John’s neck. John moaned and set down his glass. He moved his head back, his lips grazing Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock reached in front of John and ran the back of his knuckles down John’s erect penis.

“Oh God,” John moaned.

Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around John’s length. He started slowly then faster. His other arm wrapped around John, pulling him tight against him. His lips began sucking on John’s earlobe.

John was moaning and swearing like a sailor. Sherlock smiled. He loved the fact that he could take John apart like this. His own cock was aching, trapped between his body and John’s. He wanted to rub himself against John but this was all a part of making John happy.

He could feel John’s heart beating faster against his hand. He knew the signs. John was so close. He started adding a twist at the top, and, within seconds, John stiffened and came, screaming Sherlock’s name. Sherlock hugged him tight as he came down from his orgasm. He nuzzled into his neck, licking and kissing. John’s hand came up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you so much. Always,” Sherlock said.

John turned around a bit. Enough so Sherlock could bend a little and kiss him. Their tongues glided together. John’s hand moved backwards between them, a bit awkwardly. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s stiff length.

“Oh, my boy’s hurting, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Let John make it better.” He kissed Sherlock again as he moved his hand quickly along Sherlock’s length.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock began to pant. It always felt good when John touched him, but this was something else.

“Oh John,” he moaned. He closed his eyes.

“Come for me, baby,” John whispered. “Come for your John . . .”

When Sherlock came, he felt like he’d lost complete control of his body. When he opened his eyes again, it was to look into John’s eyes, the dark blue almost blocked by his iris, his eyes blown with lust. He was smiling at Sherlock. 

“Oh John. That was . . . amazing.”

They picked up their glasses and John leaned back against Sherlock, both feeling relaxed. They sipped the excellent wine until the water started to grow cold.

“Let’s move this into the bedroom,” John said. 

They got out and drained the tub, wiping each other off with thick white towels.

John reached out and poured each of them another glass before they walked hand in hand to the bedroom. 

They got into bed, setting their glasses on the bedside tables. They sat against the top of the bed, pillows behind their backs. Sherlock put his arms around John who snuggled into him, the side of his head leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“What a perfect evening,” Sherlock sighed, leaning the side of his head against the top of John’s head.

“Mmmm. And it’s not over yet.”

“Oh?” Sherlock said, smiling.

“I believe I need to feel that huge cock of yours inside me before the evening’s over.” 

“Well . . . I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

As they slowly made love, Sherlock felt complete, so happy that he thought he’d absolutely burst.

As they lay in each other’s arms, Sherlock was so content, he never wanted it to end.

But then he fell asleep. During the days he’d been with John, he’d managed to stay awake the whole time, but he was exhausted and finally it was too much. 

Suddenly, he was back in the warehouse, only he was chained like he’d been chained up in Serbia, his arms stretched so he had to stand or his arms would be dislocated if he tried to collapse. He felt the whip against his back and the blood dripping down his back. He looked up and saw Mycroft, sitting there in a Serbian military uniform with his feet up, watching dispassionately.

“Harder,” he said in Serbia. “Make him squeal.”

He looked at Mycroft with shock on his face. The whip hit him again and again. He bit his lip to keep from screaming. He wouldn’t give Mycroft the pleasure.

“This is boring,” Mycroft growled. “Get him down. We need to do something else. Tie him to the bed.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Please, please, My. Don’t let them do this. Please.”

“Shut up,” one of the soldiers growled as they threw him face down on the blood-soaked bed and chained him to it.

He knew they were going to rape him. It had taken place already time and time and time again. But this time would be in front of his brother. He felt like he wanted to die right there. 

“Please, My. Please go away. Don’t watch this.”

“It’s about time you were brought down to size, Little Brother.”

One of them pushed himself roughly into him and he screamed. He tried to get free. He heard Mycroft get up and come towards him. He squatted down on his haunches and reached out, grabbing Sherlock by his sweat-soaked hair and lifting his head clear of the bed.

“You deserve this, Brother Mine. You deserve every bit of this pain and humiliation. You weren’t any good. You’re a Freak. You don’t deserve love and friends. When you were a child, no one cared. I certainly didn’t. You embarrassed Mummy and Daddy over and over until they hated you. You think Gregory cares? Of course he doesn’t. You helped him get cases solved. Dr. Hooper hates you for spurning her. Mrs. Hudson pretends to care because you pay her rent. Mary hates you because you love her husband.

“And John? You’ve hurt him over and over again. You left him for two years, and you expected him to welcome you with open arms? You arrogant, little bastard. You’re lucky that he only broke your nose and opened up the stitches in your back. He should never have spoken to you again. He should have beat you up every time he saw you.

“You’re nothing. You think you’re this great man, but you’re an utter failure. And you deserve all this. Absolutely all of this.” Mycroft let go of his hair, and Sherlock’s face fell onto the bed. Tears blinded him as his heart broke.

“And I think I’ll prove just how much I hate you. How disgusted I am by you.” Mycroft stood up, just as the man violating him finished. “You don’t deserve to be a Holmes. You should have died in Serbia. I should never have saved you. Mummy and Daddy were so happy when you were shot, when they thought you were dead.”

Sherlock heard a zipper being lowered. “No. No. My, please no. Don’t do this. Don’t rape me. Don’t do it. You’re my brother. Please.”

“Shut up, you disappointing junkie.”

As Mycroft violently entered him, Sherlock woke screaming.

“No! No! No! My, no! Don’t, please!”

The room was black, except for a night light in the corner.

“Help me! Help me!” he screamed.

A nurse and orderly charged into the room, flicking on the light. 

“What’s wrong, Mr. Holmes?” the nurse asked. 

“Please, please, help me.” Sherlock felt the sobs coming, the tears falling down his cheeks. “Help me.”

“What’s wrong?” the nurse asked again. She reached out and touched his arm.

“My brother was hurting me. Make him stop.”

“It was a dream, Mr. Holmes, just a dream.”

“A dream?” he asked.

“Just a dream. It’s alright. You’re safe here. Your brother can’t hurt you.” She rubbed his arm soothingly. “Listen, I can get you something to make you sleep, alright?”

“But I could dream the same thing. My brother was hurting me.”

“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t hurt you. He’s been calling every day to see how you are.”

“Is Dr. Cooper here?”

“No, he’s home. Do you want me to get the doctor on call?”

“No. I don’t want to bother him.” He picked up his bear and held it tight against his chest. He breathed in John’s scent.

“Do you want a drink of water?”

“Please.”

She helped him drink.

“Can you leave the light on?”

“Yes, of course.”

The nurse and orderly left. Sherlock was haunted by the dream, afraid that what Mycroft said was exactly what everyone thought. None of them wanted him. They all pretended. None of them cared. He’d said exactly what Sherlock had feared most.

But could that be it? Could that dream just be his fears brought to life? They were all writing letters that said they loved him. 

He turned as best he could onto his side and hugged John to him. “Oh John. I wish you were here.”

He tried his best to stay awake, afraid the dream would come back, but he was so exhausted that he fell asleep within an hour.

When he woke, it was early morning. He hit the call button and an orderly came to get him ready. When the orderly put him in his wheelchair, it was time for breakfast. He was given his meds and his meal. As he finished, Dr. Cooper came in.

“I hear you had a rough night.”

Sherlock told him about being with John in his head and then about the dream.

“That must’ve been terrible. What do you think it means?”

“That I was right. That they don’t care.” 

“Couldn’t it just be a manifestation of those fears?”

“I thought about it. Maybe. I want them to go away. Those thoughts. Those dreams. I was with John and I was so, so happy and then Mycroft was . . .”

“Listen. I’ve got another letter. Why don’t you read it?”

 

My dearest boy, 

I miss you, first of all. I miss you each and every day. I have to admit that I so enjoyed our days together. It was so nice to have you home.

You know how much I love you.

When we met, you were in Florida and high as a kite. But you saved me from my husband. And those deductions . . . you proved Frank had killed those people, and I was free. I remember that night in the hotel room. I remember patching you up after Frank’s men had beaten you up. And you helped me. You helped me heal after everything I’d been through.

From that moment on, you felt like my son. I’d always wanted children, but Frank didn’t. And by the time I was free of him, it was too late. But, you, my dear boy, I’ve always loved you. 

And like any mother, I’ve always worried about you. Every time you were hurt, it nearly broke my heart.

When you came back after we all thought you’d died, I was overjoyed. And to know that you did it to save my life and John and Greg’s. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me. 

Oh, dear Sherlock, my boy. I want you to come home. I need you to come home. I miss you so much.

I know how badly you feel about yourself. I know that you think we’re all better off without you, but it’s not true. It’s far, far from true.

You’re the glue that keeps us together. Our little group is cemented together by you. You’re the centre of us. We love you, Sherlock. We’ll always love you. We’ll always need you.

Please come home. We want to help you. We want to protect you.

We love you. I love you. Come back, my boy.

All my love,

Martha

 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock whispered. 

“She misses you?”

Sherlock nodded. “She wants me to come home. She misses me. She said I was like her son and she loves me.”

“Then how could you think she’s better off without you?”

Sherlock didn’t feel so totally convinced anymore. All of those letters. They all said how much he was missed, how much he was loved.

“I . . . I don’t know. I can’t be sure. I’m so confused. I want to go home, but I don’t want to be a burden. I want to be happy, but the only place I feel happy is in my head with John, even though I know it isn’t real. But it feels real, when I’m there. I can see him, feel him, taste him, smell him. And he loves me there. He loves me, just as much as I love him. Out here, there’s just pain and he doesn’t love me. I so want to be there. But am I really hurting them?

“I’ve sacrificed so much for them. Now they want me to come home, to live in pain and humiliation to make them happy. Why can’t I be happy? Should I suffer just to make them happy?”

“You can’t live your life for others. You have to live for yourself, Sherlock. But you can’t spend all of your life in a fantasy world.”

“Why?” 

“It’s not real.”

“But I don’t care.”

“You exhausted yourself continuing that fiction. If we continue to work together, I can help you work on your self-esteem on controlling your PTSD and depression and your dreams. Will you try?”

“Maybe, but I want to spend time with John too.”

“For awhile each day but no more. Work on your book. Reread your letters. Go down and visit in the common room. I know that you’re happy with John. But you have so much here. So much to live for. So many people who care for you. Please try to think of your well-being. Living in a fantasy world may feel good, but it will take you further and further away from reality and from the people that care about you.

“You might feel like it’s what’s best for them. But you don’t like your brother, John, and I telling you what we think is best for you. So what makes it any different if you think you know what’s best for them without asking? These letters seem to very clearly indicate that they want you to come home. There are still your friends and family. They love you.”

“But to sacrifice myself again. Again and again, I sacrifice for them.”

“I know you do. I know it hurts. But they love you. There’s always sacrifice in love.”

“But they . . . never mind. No one listens. No one cares what I want, what I think.”

“Yes, we do. We always care.”

“You have no idea how bad the pain is. My feet cramp and it makes me want to scream. My hands and arms cramp. My back always hurts. My head aches all the time. The drugs you give me take the barest edge off of the pain. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s overwhelming.”

“We’ve gone through pain management exercises.”

“They don’t work.”

“Your brother is looking into experimental methods.”

“Ah, my brother. I notice you haven’t given me his letter. Has he even written one?”

“I was saving his and John’s for last. I can give you Mycroft’s right now if you’d like.”

“He actually wrote me?”

Cooper took the letter out of his notebook. “I’ll leave you alone to read it.”

Sherlock carefully unfolded the letter.

 

Brother Mine,

When your doctor asked me to write a letter to you, I wasn’t sure what to say. Ours has always been a relationship fraught with tension. I remember the day when Mummy and Daddy brought you home. I was a bit . . . disgusted. I knew there would be smells and crying and other disturbances. Mummy insisted that I hold you, and the second I looked into those remarkable eyes of yours, I knew I would always take care of you. And I swear, you smiled at me.

I watched over you from that moment. Mummy claimed I acted more like your mother than she did. I played with you, changed your nappies, fed you, told you stories. Your first word was My. You used to say “Mine My” all the time. It almost broke me when Mummy and Daddy sent me off to boarding school. I missed you so much, and Mummy said you cried for three days and wouldn’t speak for three weeks.

I remember returning home and I knew I’d changed. The other boys had made fun of me for missing you. So I decided, at that young age, that caring was a disadvantage. It nearly broke my heart when you came running to me for me to come play with you and I rejected you. You don’t know how many times since then that I’ve blamed myself for ruining our relationship.

I know you grew up isolated. I decided that I would befriend those who could help me get ahead, and that at a very young age. I know the children tormented you. I never knew how badly until I came home for a weekend, and you were black and blue. I stayed home an extra day and made my visits to the parents of those children responsible. I was able to use contacts to threaten the jobs of each of their fathers. They stopped bothering you so much after that.

I kept tabs on you, and I know you hated it. I know about the abuse you underwent in uni. I know you tried to fight back with your wonderful mind, but those idiots were too far beneath you. And the loneliness, the abuse led to drugs. I had hoped that you might find something else to quiet your mind. I was so terrified of losing you. I was sure that one day I’d get the call that you were laying dead in an alley.

You hated when I forced you into rehab, insisting you could control it. But I was so afraid. That’s why I insisted on you giving me a list of the drugs you took.

That’s why I was pleased that you met Gregory Lestrade. That you found something to occupy your mind besides drugs.

And then you met John. I was so glad you had a friend and, I must admit, a bit jealous. I know it wasn’t an easy relationship, and I know how much you care, how much you love him. And if it was in my power, Brother Mine, I would make sure he was yours. Having known what it was like to find the love of your life, I wish nothing but for you to have the same thing.

Sherlock, I know you are in pain. And if I could take it myself, I would. I will find a treatment. I’ve got the best people working on it. I will find the person responsible for all of this. We’re closing in on the lawyers’ contact.

You feel like you’ve lost everything, and I can understand that. I understand that you thought death was all you had. And if it were me, I’d probably have felt the same. But you have us, Little Brother. All of us. We all love you. We all want you in our lives. I lost so much in that car accident, but I have you. I can’t lose you too. You’re the most important person in my life. I would be lost without you.

Please, please come back to us. Maybe it seems selfish of us to ask this one last sacrifice, but we have to ask anyway. You’ve done so much for all of us, Sherlock. Let us do for you now. Let us take care of you. Let us be with you. Let us hold you when you cry. Be there when the memories overwhelm. Hold your hand when you’re afraid. I will do this and more to protect you. I will not let them win. I will not let them take you away from me. 

I love you, Sherlock. I love you too much to let you fade away, locked up in an institution. I can’t let that happen to you. You’re worth the world to me. I know we aren’t the type of people that say things like this to each other, but it’s true. Don’t let them win. Don’t let the PTSD and the depression win. Fight. Fight just a little longer.

I won’t let anyone hurt you again. My people are watching you in the hospital, making sure that no one can get to you (and no, they aren’t spying on you, just keeping you safe). 

Please come home. Please come back to me.

My

 

Tears dripped from Sherlock’s face as he finished the letter. He couldn’t believe that Mycroft loved him so much. He’d always thought he’d at best tolerated him. But he truly loved him. And he wanted him home.

They all wanted him home. They all wanted to look after him and be there for him.

Sherlock was overwhelmed with emotion to know that he was so loved. That there were people who missed him that much. Maybe. Maybe he should reconsider.

He knew there was still John’s letter to come, but he didn’t think he could read it today. He wanted to see if John had responded to his email.

“Dr. Cooper, could you come in?”

“Are you okay, Sherlock?”

“I . . . I can’t believe that Mycroft cares so much about me.”

“Do you want to read John’s letter?”

“Not today. I don’t think I can handle it. But I forgot about emailing John. I’d like to see what he said.”

Dr. Cooper helped him into bed and plugged in the computer. Sherlock put on the headphones as the computer booted up. He opened the email. John had indeed answered two days ago.

He opened up the email.

 

Hey, Sherlock, 

I’m so happy to hear from you. I’ve missed you so much. I feel like part of me is missing without you in it. I hope you change your mind and come home.

I’ve written you a long letter. Mycroft asked me to. You’ll be getting it soon. I hope you read it. 

I think it’s a great idea to write a book or, who knows, a whole series of them. We can almost make a book out of every case. And of course I’ll help you.

I’ll have a look at what you sent me and send some notes in a day or so.

I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear from you. Take care.

JW

 

The second email hadn’t come. Sherlock sent a reply.

 

John, 

It’s been a different few days. I’ve had some really good and really bad times. I had a terrible nightmare and I’ve been a bit leery to sleep. I’ve also built a kind of world in my head. It’s just you and me. It’s an incredible place. We go on cases and guess what? There’s no pain! And I’m whole! There’s no scars and I can walk and use my hands. I play my violin for hours. And, though I know this might make you uncomfortable, but you love me there. I’ve never been anywhere where I’ve been so happy. I stayed there for two days, John. Dr. Cooper woke me up to eat and take my medication and to do my sessions.

I just wanted to stay there forever. I don’t know now. I’ve read all the letters but yours. Dr. Cooper has been giving me them so many at a time. I read Mycroft’s today and it made me cry. Mrs. Hudson was so sweet. And Mary told me how much you miss me, and how much she does. I also got letters from Greg and Molly and even Mummy and Daddy.

I was so sure they were embarrassed by me and ashamed and that they didn’t love me anymore. But they still love me, John! They said if I come home, they’ll come and see me. 

I’m so confused, John. I don’t know what to do anymore. I want to come home, but I’m so scared. I’m scared that you will all resent me and leave eventually. But I miss all of you so much. I want to be with you. I just can’t imagine my life here in these four walls.

What do I do, John? Please tell me. I trust you.

Please let me know.

SH

 

Sherlock pressed send.

He picked up one of his files from the Emerald Lily case and started to read it.

His email dinged and he saw John’s email address come up a little while later.

 

Oh, Sherlock, 

I’m sorry about the nightmare. I know how bad they can be.

I’m glad that you have a place to go where you’re happy and I don’t begrudge you having a place where I love you in the same way you love me.

But I think you can’t stay there forever. I know it’s very tempting. I know you want to be there. And I don’t blame you.

I want you to come home. You know that. You are so loved, Sherlock. I hope the letters have helped you to see that. You’re safe at home. You’re safe with us.

Mycroft, Greg, and I are closing in on the lawyers’ contact. We’ll have him in custody (well, in Mycroft’s super secret dungeon anyway) in a day or two. And once we have him, it won’t be long before we have the person behind this.

So, you’ll be completely safe in a few days, Sherlock. That animal can’t hurt you anymore. 

Please come home to us. Read my letter tomorrow. It says everything I meant to say. I thought a long time before I wrote it.

Think about it. Think about us. We love you and we want you home.

JW

 

Sherlock smiled. “My John,” he said fondly. “My John loves me. He misses me.”

He hit reply.

 

I will think about it. And I will read your letter tomorrow. I think I’ll work a bit on the book today. I sort of befriended someone in the common room. He let me play games with him and help with a puzzle. I might go down later.

I miss you, too, John. When I had a bad night the other night, they couldn’t calm me down. Dr. Cooper got me a bear. His name is John. He’s blond and has eyes like yours. Dr. Cooper said he called you to find out what aftershave you used and put some on him. He was all that calmed me down.

When I get upset, I think about you, holding me in your arms. I think about you kissing the top of my head. I love laying there with my head on your chest listening to you breathe and your heart beating. It makes me feel safe and at home.

I promise you, John. I promise I will think about coming home. I’m lonely, and I want to see you. In my head, I know you’d be better off without me, but in my soul, in my heart, I want to be with all of you.

I’ll work away at the book and send you an email tomorrow. Have a good day.

SH

 

Sherlock organized his notes and set out a basic timeline for the case. He had some memories of the case but couldn’t remember every detail.

When he finished, it was the middle of the afternoon. He knew Cooper would be back soon.

Their session that followed was one on building self-esteem. Cooper worked off of the letters, proving to Sherlock that he was loved. 

“If your friends and family love you that much, how can you think they’re better off without you?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve read the letters over and over and they seem to be sincere. I want to be with them. I’m just so confused. All my life I’ve felt like a loser, useless, worthless. But they make me feel better. Even Mycroft.”

“It’s a lot to absorb. But doesn’t it make you feel better to know they do love you? That they care and want to be with you?”

“It does. If I’ve spent my whole life feeling so badly about myself, have I wasted my life?”

“No. You’ve suffered from abuse, Sherlock. You were relentlessly bullied and beaten. It’s very common to feel like you do after something like that. But you’re starting to turn around. You’re seeing yourself through other peoples’ eyes, and you’re seeing that people care about you.”

“I . . . suppose you’re right.”

“Try to think about it that way, alright?”

“I’ll try. I’ve been working on my book today. And I talked to John by email.”

“That’s good.”

“Can . . . can I maybe go to the common room for a bit?”

Dr. Cooper smiled. “Of course you can. That’s great, Sherlock. Very, very good.” Dr. Cooper helped him up and wheeled him down the hall.

Peter came over as soon as they came in the room. “Hey William. Missed you the last few days.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“It’s okay. Happens a lot in here. Listen, we’re just starting a game of shoots and ladders. You want to play?”

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

Scott wheeled him over to a table where two men sat.

“Guys, this is William. William, this is Jacob and Kadir.” 

The other two smiled at him and held out their hands. When they saw Sherlock’s mutilated hand, they shook anyway.

“So, you’re William,” Jacob said. “Scott’s been talking about you.”

“He has?”

“Says you’re a great guy,” Kadir said.

Sherlock smiled. “Well . . . I don’t know about that. But I do try.”

They settled in to play the game. Scott moved Sherlock’s piece for him.

They played several games when one of the patients came over. He started staring at Sherlock.

“You’re that guy, aren’t you?” he said.

Sherlock felt fear creeping in.

“This is William,” Scott said. “You want to join us for a game, Alistair?”

“He’s the guy on the telly. And on the internet too. He’s that detective, Sherlock Holmes. He’s the one they kidnapped and they cut him all up, crippled him, cut off his fingers, and cut up his face. And they raped him too. I saw it on the news. They released the video on the internet, the guys that done it. It shows them hurting him. You can hear him screaming on it.”

Sherlock was shaking. He was trying desperately not to cry, but the tears were pouring down his face. He was staring down at his hands, wishing he could be anywhere else.

“He was this real posh guy and now he’s just like us. All brain damaged and stupid.”

“Shut up, Alistair!” Scott yelled. “Leave him alone. Do you think he asked for them to do that? Go away.”

Alistair looked angry but walked away, stopping to tell everyone and pointing at Sherlock.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked, laying his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

“I thought you said your name was William?”

“My real first name is William. I . . . I just didn’t w . . . want people to make fun of me.” He glanced up at Scott, who was looking at him, pity in his eyes. Jacob and Kadir stood up and came around the table. 

“Don’t listen to Alistair,” Kadir said. “He’s full of shit.”

“But he’s telling everyone. They’ll all laugh at me.”

Scott looked at Sherlock. “Not as long as I’m around.”

“Or me,” Kadir said.

“Or me,” Jacob added.

“Want me to take you back to your room?” Scott asked.

“Could you? I . . . I don’t feel comfortable here.”

Kadir and Jacob said their goodbyes as Scott wheeled Sherlock down to his room. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock. People in here are generally really nice. Alistair’s just an attention-seeking arsehole.”

“You don’t think the others will make fun of me?”

“Don’t worry about them. Stick with me and Jacob and Kadir. We’ve got your back.”

“Really?”

“Of course. You’re a nice guy. You don’t deserve that. Don’t let them get to you. I’m your friend.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, no problem. You want back in bed?”

“I might as well. They’ll be coming to feed me soon.”

Scott helped him back into bed. 

“Thanks Scott.”

“See you later.” He smiled as he left.

Dr. Cooper came into the room a few minutes later. “Sherlock, are you alright? I heard what happened.”

“I was so scared that they would laugh or make fun.”

“Did they?”

“No. But Alistair told everyone. They were all staring at me. But Scott told him to shut up. He and Kadir and Jacob said they wouldn’t let anyone say anything to me. I . . . I didn’t want anyone here to know.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s alright. It’ll be fine.”

“I can’t go down there again. I just can’t.”

“Don’t let them get to you. You are making so much progress with your self-esteem. It doesn’t matter what any of them think. Scott and his friends defended you, didn’t they? They haven’t known you very long and they like you now.”

“Yes, I suppose. I just don’t know that I can face them again.”

“You’ll be fine, Sherlock. Don’t let this upset you. Do you want me to stay for awhile?”

“No.”

“Will you obsess about this?”

“Probably.”

“Let me at least turn on your music. Why don’t you email John?”

“Maybe. After dinner. He might still be at work. I don’t want to bother him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear from you again. It’s good that you’re reaching out. I’m so pleased with your progress.”

Sherlock blinked. People, well except for John, didn’t often compliment him. “Do you really mean that?”

“I do. I know everyone will be very proud of your progress.”

An orderly came in with Sherlock’s dinner.

“I’ll leave you to eat. I’ll be here for another hour. If you need me, send for me. I can be paged tonight as well.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

After dinner, Sherlock asked the orderly to take him to the loo and then help him with his computer. He opened his email.

 

John,

I need to talk to you. I had an incident today. I was in the common room playing Shoots and Ladders with Scott (who I met the other day) and his friends Jacob and Kadir. One of the other patients recognized me. He told everyone. I’d been calling myself William so no one could find out. My three new friends told him to shut up and defended me. But I was sitting there shaking. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared that I’ll have a nightmare tonight.

Oh, John. I’m just getting to the point where I’m a bit better. We’ve been working on my self-esteem. Dr. Cooper has made me rethink some things. I don’t want to lose that. I’m really thinking about coming home. I just don’t want this to change things.

I just needed to hear from you. I miss you, John. I really do.

SH

 

He sent the email and leaned back, listening to his music.

Twenty minutes later, his email pinged.

 

Sherlock,

I’m so sorry to hear what happened. I can imagine how upset you were. You refused to leave the flat because of it. But it’s okay. No one laughed, did they? Just because one guy’s trying to impress people by being an asshat, doesn’t mean everyone will be.

I’m so happy to hear your therapy is going so well, and I’m really glad to hear you’re thinking about coming home. I’m here for you, Sherlock, always. Listen to music, cuddle your bear and think of me, try your best to put it out of your head. If I could be there, I’d lay with you on the bed and hold you. I’d stay all night to fight off those nightmares for you. If you have one, email me. I’ll leave my computer by the bed. Please look after yourself.

JW

 

Sherlock felt John’s caring come through the email. “He really does care. He loves me,” Sherlock whispered.

He hit reply.

 

I’ll take care. Thank you, John. Just hearing from you has made me feel better.

 

SH

 

He shut off the computer and lay back as his music shifted to a new composer. He was nodding off a few hours later when a nurse came in to give him his meds and an orderly to get him ready for sleep.

“Could you leave the music on? Maybe turn it down quite low?”

“Sure,” the orderly said.

Sherlock settled down to sleep, half afraid of what he’d dream. As the music lulled him into a half-awake, half-asleep doze, he saw John, his John in his head, holding his arms open and then enfolding him in a hug. Sherlock could smell his aftershave, his shampoo and soup, detergent, and that special smell that was just John. And it made him smile and relax. As sleep came, John whispered, “I love you.”

His dreams that night weren’t unpleasant. He and John on cases, playing with Redbeard, playing with Mycroft as a boy.

He woke suddenly. He didn’t know why. He heard a slight sound. It was dark (just the night light was on), the music was low but it made it hard to hear. He was laying on his right side, so his blind eye was towards the room. He started to try and sit up when he heard movement again.

Hands grabbed at him, forcing his face back into the pillow. He struggled, but there were two of them. He opened his mouth to cry out, but someone forced something into it, choking him.

They pulled the quilts off and turned him over onto his stomach. He knew; suddenly Sherlock knew exactly what they were going to do.

He tried to scream, but it came out muffled. He tried to fight, but they were holding him down. He felt something being tied around his wrists and then they were tied to the bed.

He tried to kick, but his legs weren’t strong enough. 

“Hear you like to take it up the arse,” one of them whispered harshly in his ear.

Sherlock shook his head, eyes filling with tears.

They pull down his pyjama bottoms and pants. 

“Holy fuck, look at that,” one of them gasped. “Poor bugger, imagine having your legs crushed like that.” 

“Yeah, probably hurt like hell. And look at that. Someone carved ‘Mine’ in his arse. And it’s a right pretty arse too, ain’t it?”

“Just like a round, full woman’s arse.”

Sherlock heard the sound of clothes being taken off and felt the bed move as someone climbed on.

“This is gonna be fun. And don’t think your brother’s guard’s gonna save you. He’s a bit unconscious.”

Sherlock struggled as he heard foil being rustled.

“Take it easy, mate. It’ll be over soon enough. Good thing we brought these. Who knows what he’s got?”

Sherlock struggled as hard as he could, screaming. 

“Cut it out,” the man behind him growled. “I have a message for you. It goes, ‘You think you can get away from me. Hide from me in the loony bin? There’s nowhere you’re safe from me. You’re mine to do with as I please.’” He grabbed hold tightly to Sherlock’s hips and shoved his condom-covered penis roughly into him. The dryness of the condom made everything worse. The pain was unbelievable. Sherlock thrashed, trying to get him out. He felt his rapist’s hands tighten on his hips, there would be bruises there soon.

“Fuck, he’s tight,” the man grunted. “Good little fuck, aren’t you?” One of his hands left Sherlock’s hip and caressed his back, raising his pyjama top.

“Holy shit, look at his back,” the other one said. 

“That must of hurt,” the other one said as he sped up.

Sherlock screamed and screamed, his mind flashing back to the warehouse.

A few minutes later, the rapist sped up even more, slamming hard into him. Sherlock felt tissue giving way and blood beginning to flow as the man came and collapsed on Sherlock’s back. Pain flashed through him at the touch on his back. The man was breathing hard as he slipped out of Sherlock and off the bed. 

“Oh, damn it, you tore him all up. Now he’s bleeding.”

“Just put on your rubber. You’ll be fine.”

Sherlock heard the other man undress and put on the condom before he climbed up on the bed and quickly entered him.

Sherlock screamed again. This one was quite a bit bigger than the first one, and he was stretching him painfully, opening the wounds further. This one took his time, going slow and grinding hard into him.

“Hurry up,” the other one said. “We’ve got to get out before the nurse makes her rounds.”

“I’m savouring. You’re right. He’s a great fuck.” He sped up and pounded hard into Sherlock. A few minutes later, he stiffened and came.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Sherlock was crying, great hiccupping sobs. The pain was unbearable. His mind was reeling, flashing between the hospital room and the warehouse. He could feel the wetness of the mattress and knew he was bleeding heavily.

“Cover him up. The nurse won’t notice. He didn’t see us. There’s no DNA evidence. Throw his pyjamas under the bed.”

One of them bent over Sherlock. “Thanks for the fuck.”

They both laughed and left the room.

Sherlock felt helpless and dirty. He wanted to die right there. Crying had stuffed up his nose so much that he could hardly breathe. Maybe if he kept crying, he’d suffocate. And this would be over. How could he go on like this? Maybe he’d bleed to death.

He wanted John. Any of his friends or Mycroft. He felt like he was broken beyond repair. Everything he’d worked for. Everything he’d suffered. It was just to suffer more. If he’d stayed home, he would have been safe.

He wanted to be home. He wanted to be in his bed at home. He wanted John to hold him.

He was getting light-headed. 

He heard the door open. Frightened that they were coming back, he screamed as loud as he could.

The light came on, and he screamed again. He heard someone approach the bed.

“Mr. Holmes, are you alright?” he heard someone say.

He turned his head towards her.

“Oh God,” she said as she pulled the cloth from his mouth.

“Help me,” he whispered. “Please.”

She started to untie his hands.

“I’m bleeding,” he said, his strength giving out. “Please, there’s so much blood.”

“Where?” she said.

“They . . . they raped me.”

She pulled the quilts off and gasped at the amount of blood soaking the blankets and mattress. She hit the call button.

“Emergency! We need a doctor, stat!”

She grabbed one of the pillows and stripped off the case, pressing it to Sherlock’s torn hole. He screamed in pain.

“I know it hurts. I’ve got to slow the bleeding.”

A doctor, two nurses, and two orderlies charged into the room.

“What’s going on?” the doctor asked.

“He’s been raped. He’s bleeding heavily. The bed’s soaked. Multiple tears on the outside of the sphincter, probable internal tearing.”

The doctor took over as the nurse moved aside.

“What can I do for you?” she asked Sherlock, brushing the hair off his forehead.

“John. I want John. Please,” he whispered.

“Let’s get him to surgery. If he stays here much longer, he’s going to bleed out.”

As they pushed the bed out of the room, Sherlock finally lost consciousness.

 

The nurse picked up the phone and dialled the number.

“Hello?” a sleepy voice asked.

“Dr. Cooper, it’s Jenny Carpenter from the hospital. There’s been an incident with Mr. Holmes.”

The sleepiness disappeared from his voice. “What happened? Nightmare?”

“I’m afraid it’s much more serious. He’s been attacked and raped. He said ‘they’ so there were at least two. He’s down in surgery. He’s badly torn and was bleeding badly.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Doctor, he said he wanted John.”

“I’ll call him and his brother.”

 

His mobile rang. John rolled over and looked at the time. 4:22. He moaned as Mary stirred.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Watson, it’s Dr. Cooper. There’s been an incident. I’m afraid Sherlock’s been attacked. He was raped by at least two men.”

“What?” John sat up.

“What’s wrong?” Mary asked, sitting up too.

“Sherlock was raped at the hospital,” he said to Mary. He turned back to the mobile. “Is he alright?”

“He was badly torn and is in surgery. He asked for you before they took him in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

John turned off the mobile and got up.

“Is he alright?” Mary asked, her voice full of concern.

“He’s bleeding badly. They took him into surgery.” John had no idea what clothes he was putting on. “He asked for me.”

“Of course, you’ve got to go. Call me when you hear anything.”

“I will,” he said as he bent over to kiss her. He pulled on his coat as he ran out the door, grabbing his keys.

 

“Yes?” a surprisingly normal-sounding voice said.

“It’s Dr. Cooper, Mr. Holmes. You need to come to the hospital right away. Sherlock’s been raped. He’s in surgery right now.”

“How . . . how could this have happened?”

“I don’t know. I got a call from one of the night nurses. I’m on my way there now.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

 

John charged into the hospital and was met by Dr. Cooper in the lobby.

“How is he?”

“He’s still in surgery. There’s been a lot of blood loss. He’s very weak. There’s been a lot of tearing externally and internally.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. The nurse was making her rounds. When she opened the door, he started to make a noise. She found his mouth had been stuffed with part of a pillow case and he’d been tied to the bed. He said ‘they’ so we know there were at least two attackers. That’s all I know. She did ask him if she could get him anything, and he said he wanted you.”

John collapsed into a chair. “Oh God,” he whispered. “This will destroy him. He’s just started to recover. He was going to come home.”

“I think he’ll be able to still come home. I feel terrible about this. He was meant to feel safe here.”

“It’s not your fault. But the bastards who did this are going to pay.”

“Indeed they will,” Mycroft said as he approached them. He was impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place. And John got a feeling that the entire wrath of the most powerful man in England was about to be visited upon this hospital.

Dr. Cooper explained Sherlock’s condition and what had happened.

“I thought you had someone watching him?” John asked.

“I do. I’ve tried his mobile and haven’t been able to reach him.”

“We’ll get security to look for him,” Dr. Cooper said. Mycroft gave him a description of the man. Cooper went over to the reception desk and made a call.

“How could this happen?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. “But whoever it is is going to pay dearly.”

“Someone recognized him yesterday in the common room. Started telling everyone who he was and what happened to him. It had to have been someone who heard about it.” 

“How did you know?”

“He emailed me last night. Mycroft, he was almost to the point of coming home. He had really been working on his self-esteem and was feeling better about himself. I’m so afraid all of his progress is going to be lost.”

“We won’t let it. He needs us. He asked for you, didn’t he?”

“I suppose.”

Dr. Cooper approached them. “There’s been a man found unconscious in a stairwell. He matches the description you gave me.”

“Someone obviously planned this. How is he?” Mycroft asked.

“Just a bump on the head. He’ll be fine.” 

“Can we go back to the operating rooms?” John asked. 

“Sure.”

Dr. Cooper led them back to the waiting room outside the surgical suites before he went in himself. He came out a few minutes later.

“They’re nearly done. He should be in recovery in awhile. The rapists used condoms so there’s little chance of STDs, but they didn’t use any lubrication. They tore him up badly. There’s damage to the rectum and the anal canal. The anal fissures that were the result of his captivity have been opened up again and expanded. He’s going to be running a high risk of infection. But they’ve sutured up all of the wounds, have given him a blood transfusion to stabilize him, and are pumping his full of antibiotics, just to be safe.”

“When will we be able to see him?”

“He’ll be in recovery for awhile. We’ll move him back to his room probably in an hour or two. If you want to wait up there, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Have the authorities been contacted? It is a crime scene,” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t think so. I never even thought of it.”

“Let’s call in Greg,” John said. “He’ll keep it quiet.”

“Yes. My thoughts exactly.”

John pulled out his mobile and called Greg at home, waking him. 

“Greg?”

“John. Something wrong?” he asked, yawning.

“We need you and your team down at the hospital.”

A suddenly wide awake Greg answered him. “Is Sherlock alright?”

John explained what had happened. 

“Holy Christ,” Greg swore.

“Mycroft and I thought if you could come, at least you and your team could keep it quiet.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll pull in people I can trust or are easily threatened. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

“See you soon.”

John disengaged the mobile. “He’ll be here soon.”

“It seems my brother will need a new room for now,” Mycroft said to Dr. Cooper. 

“Yes, of course. I’ll make some arrangements. If you want to meet your friend at Sherlock’s room, I’ll make sure I text you when he’s being moved.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft and John made their way up to Sherlock’s room. Neither entered. They saw Sherlock’s crumpled pyjama bottoms on the floor, drops of blood were evident beside where the bed had been, the music was still playing. But the thing that brought tears to John’s eyes was the sight of Sherlock’s teddy bear kicked to the corner. 

Mycroft stood there, stiff as a post, his jaw set as if he was trying very much not to cry. 

John called Mary to let her know what happened.

Greg and his team arrived half an hour later. Mycroft and John had brought chairs from down the hall to sit on.

“How is he?”

“Still in recovery,” John said as he and Mycroft stood. “The doctor’s going to text us when he’s moved to his new room.”

“This his former room?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “The doctor and nurses were in here. I don’t know if anyone else has been.”

Greg looked in the door. His face turned angry when he saw the blood on the floor and Sherlock’s wadded up pyjama bottoms. He motioned to the men and women following him. Amongst them was Donovan.

“Don’t worry,” she told John. “We’ll catch the bastards who did this.”

“Thanks, Sally,” John said.

He and Mycroft sat back down, not wanting to hinder the police. John’s mobile pinged.

“He’s being moved to his room,” John said after reading the text. “It’s four doors down.”

John and Mycroft got up and went into the room. A few minutes later, they wheeled Sherlock in. He was semi-conscious with an IV and blood bag inserted in his arm.

John sat down beside him and took his hand. Mycroft sat on the other side holding his other hand. 

“Sherlock?” John whispered.

“John?” a weak voice answered.

“Sherlock, we’re here. Mycroft and I are here for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. “They hurt me, John. They hurt me.”

John squeezed his hand tightly. “I know they hurt you. I’m so sorry.” He reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. “I wish I could have stopped them. I wish I could have protected you.”

“It hurt so much. Please help me, John. Don’t let them hurt me again. I couldn’t fight. There were two of them. I was laying on my right side so I couldn’t see them when they came in. They pushed my head into the pillow, stuffed my mouth, and tied me down so tight I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see them. I don’t know who they were.”

Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “They said they were dressed as orderlies. Whoever did this to me, they were behind this. They had a message from them that I wasn’t safe anywhere. That there wasn’t a place I could hide where they couldn’t get to me.” He was breathing faster. “They didn’t use the loo to flush the condoms. And they wouldn’t have taken them off to walk down the hall. So they probably have blood on their pants.”

Mycroft gasped. “I’ll go talk to my man. Maybe he can identify them. And Gregory can get a hold of the security tapes.” Mycroft left the room.

“That’s great that you remembered that. We’ll find those bastards.”

“They’ve had plenty of time to escape.” 

“But there are security cameras everywhere.” 

Mycroft returned after awhile. “We’ve got a description and Gregory’s people are reviewing the security tapes. Do you need anything, Little Brother?”

“I want to go home,” he sobbed. “Please, My. Please take me home.”

Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand. “I wish I could. I so wish I could. I will the moment they say you can leave. You’re very badly injured. You have a lot of internal and external injuries. You lost a lot of blood.”

“I don’t feel safe here.”

“I’ll double the guard. The men who attacked you, they knocked out the guard and left him in the stairwell. Gregory will also leave a man, I’m sure.”

“I want to go home. I feel so awful, so dirty, so used.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock,” John said. “They attacked you. They took advantage of you.”

“Because I can’t even defend myself anymore.”

“That’s not your fault either.” 

“I . . . I know. I . . . can’t. Oh God, John. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this. I’m scared. I’m helpless. I want to go home, but I know anyone could kill me or attack me at any time they want. What if someone takes me again? I’ve been used over and over and over. I can’t survive it anymore. My mind is breaking down piece by piece. I’m only barely hanging on to sanity as it is. I’m losing my mind. Every time something happens it’s torn a big chunk of it away. I . . . can’t . . . I . . . c . . . c . . .” Sherlock broke down in great heaving sobs.

John wrapped him in his arms, turning him on his side so John could get in bed with him. “It’s alright. It’s alright now. We’re here for you. You need us, and we need you. We won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll die before I let anyone lay a hand on you.”

“John, please, help me. My, help me. I can’t lose the tiny bit of my mind that’s left. I’m so afraid. I’m losing it. I keep flashing back between the warehouse and last night.”

“It’s because of the trauma. It’ll get better. I promise,” John said. “Remember my PTSD. It was so bad, but it got better. It takes time.”

“Everything takes time. I’m so overwhelmed with pain, I feel like I’m going to explode. It all hurts. I don’t want the pain anymore. Please make it go away.”

“I wish I could,” John said, his voice breaking. “I wish I could take it all away.”

“I’m trying, Little Brother. I’ve got three experimental treatments that look very promising.”

“Then give them to me. I’m in agony, My. Every second of every day. I don’t care if there are risks, just get me the medication.”

“Sherlock, they’re just starting human test trials.”

“I don’t care. Please I don’t care what the side effects are. Please. If I can at least be without pain, then I can be free to try and save my sanity.”

Mycroft touched his brother’s hand. “I’ll have the best one here as soon as possible.”

“Mycroft, if they’ve only starting human trials, it can’t be safe . . .” John started.

“I don’t care, John. You have no idea what my level of pain is. On a scale of 1-10, it feels like at least an 8 all the time, and that’s with the pain medication they’re giving me. John please.”

“Alright. But you’ll have to be monitored until we can see what the side effects will be with the other medications, with your physiology.”

“Anything.”

“I’ll set it in motion,” Mycroft said, pulling out his mobile.

Greg knocked at the door. “Sherlock?”

“Come in, Greg,” Sherlock said.

“Your idea worked. We found two men leaving the hospital on security cameras. They were dressed as orderlies and one of them had blood on his crotch. I’ve sent out an alert for all police to watch for them. I’ve also sent all the information to your assistant, Mycroft.” 

“We’ll have them in custody before the night is over,” Mycroft said as he touched Sherlock’s hand. 

“I can’t. I can’t face them, My. I’ll have to go to court. They’ll say awful things. I’ll have to say what they did to me.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Don’t worry. They also assaulted one of my men. I can claim jurisdiction. Those two men will quietly disappear. You’ll never have to see them.”

“Thank you, My,” Sherlock said quietly.

John held him closer as he continued to cry and shake. “You’re safe. You don’t have to worry about anything. The pain will be gone soon.”

“Don’t go, John. Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. I’m so, so sorry about all of this. I wish I could take all of it away.”

Greg spoke up. “Everything’s done in your room. You can return to it soon.”

“Don’t make me go back there,” Sherlock said.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to go. I’ll have my people move your things here. I won’t be long, and you’ll be going home. I promise,” Mycroft said.

Dr. Cooper knocked on the door and came in with another doctor.

“Hello. This is Dr. Sanders. He operated on you, Sherlock.” 

Sanders looked surprised at John lying in bed with Sherlock.

“Is this your husband?” Dr. Sanders asked.

“No. I’m his best friend, this is his brother, Mycroft, and our friend Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

“I’m here to talk about the surgery.”

“I’ll go. I’ll be back to see you soon, Sherlock. OK?” Greg said.

Sherlock looked up. “Of course. Thank you, Greg.”

“Would you like to do this in private?”

“John and My can stay,” Sherlock said.

“Mr. Holmes. There was extensive damage to the sphincter muscle, the anal canal, the rectum. There was already extensive scar tissue there from your previous sexual assaults. I’ve had to sew up the anal fissures that were reopened and expanded. There’s very serious damage. I’m afraid that it will lead to extremely painful bowel movements for the foreseeable future. To that end, we’ll be putting you on a fully liquid diet for the time being, at least until it heals. I’m afraid with the damage that’s been done on top of the previous damage, it could result in incontinence. We’ll have to wait and see. There’s also, given the location of the injuries, a very good chance of infection. You ate in the days before the sexual assault so there will be eventual bowel movements. We’ll try to do what we can to minimize the risk of infection.”

Sherlock was quietly crying, unable to stop himself.

“Mr. Holmes. It’s not hopeless. We may be able to do something to help you. We won’t know for sure until you’ve healed.”

“I . . . I was supposed to be safe here. You were supposed to keep my safe. I couldn’t even defend myself. I was supposed to be safe,” Sherlock sobbed, burying his face in John’s chest.

“I know,” Dr. Cooper said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t imagine any of this would happen. I’ll give you grief and rape counselling. We’ll go back through all that we went through before. I’m not saying it’s something you’ll soon get over. But we’ll get you on intensive therapy as soon as you’re ready.”

Sherlock continued to cry into John’s chest as the doctor left.

“Please, John. Take me home.”

“As soon as I can. I promise.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.

“They’ve ruined me. My body is destroyed now. I’m gonna have to wear nappies for the rest of my life.” 

“You don’t know for sure. It might be alright.”

Sherlock sobbed. “Oh God, I just wished they’d finished me. It can’t get any worse. It can’t. The only thing left is for someone to break my neck so I can’t move at all.”

“Sherlock, shhhh. Please. It’ll be okay. We’ll do everything we can to help you.”

“I don’t want to be helped. I want my life back.”

“You’re still here, Little Brother. I know how unhappy you are, but we’re here to help you to feel better.”

“I know you’re trying. It’s not realistic to hope I can live a good life but I can’t ever. I just can’t get over the fact that I have no purpose anymore. I’ll be dependent on people for the rest of my life. You know how independent I was, My.”

“From the moment you could walk.”

“It’s all gone. I’m gone. That child is gone.”

“You’ll find yourself, Sherlock. You’ll find yourself. That book, for instance,” My said.

“About what I used to be able to do and can’t ever do again.”

“Please try not to think about it now,” John said. “Please try and relax. You’re hurt.”

“How can I relax?”

“Please let me be strong for you. Let me take the stress away. I know you’ve just woken up, but please try. Let me hold you. Just close your eyes and clear your mind.”

“It hurts, John. It hurts. Please make them give me more medication or make me sleep. My insides hurt.”

“You should have said something before.”

“Dr. Sanders?” Mycroft asked.

“What’s your pain on a scale of 1-10?”

“10. Please.”

He consulted his chart. “You’re on a very high level of pain medication already. What’s your normal level of pain?”

“8.”

“Has anyone talked to you about pain management?”

“Of course they have. He’s got massive nerve damage through his back, legs, arms, feet, hands, and head. Nothing is working,” Mycroft said. “We’ve had several doctors working on it. I have made arrangements for a new medication. But for now, my brother’s in severe pain.”

“I don’t think I can give him anything else. I’ll give him a sleep aid.”

The doctor returned a few minutes later and injected a drug into Sherlock’s IV.

“John, will you and My stay til I wake up?”

“Yes, of course we will. I won’t leave you alone.” 

As Sherlock relaxed into sleep, the lines that pain had carved into his face around his eyes and mouth relaxed and he looked almost like a teenager.

“I don’t care who those two bastards are,” John said. “Bury them in that hole, Mycroft.”

“I will. Believe me. We’re right behind the lawyers’ contact. He’s making a valiant run for it, but we’ve found him on footage in an airport in Istanbul. My agents are closing in on him. I’m expecting a call any time now.”

“Good. I want to tear the person responsible for this into little pieces. But that would be much too merciful.”

“I agree. Whoever it is will spend the rest of their misery-filled life wishing they had never been born.” Mycroft reached down and slowly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s shorn hair. He winced as his fingers traced the scars on Sherlock’s head. The scars that meant the end of Sherlock’s former life. His brilliant brother’s mind was nothing like it was and would never be the same. He’d adored Sherlock for his whole life, and he wouldn’t, not ever again, let his brother down. The people who ruined Sherlock’s life would live long lives of pain, knowing it was their decision to lay a finger on his brother that led to it.

“He didn’t deserve this, Mycroft. He helps people. He finds murderers, rapists, thieves and puts them behind bars. He saved my life so many times. He’s protected all of us. And what does he get? Pain, loneliness, a self-image so terrible that he hid himself in here because he believed we’d all leave him. If I could trade places with him, I would.”

“As would I. He’s the most important person in my life, John, and I’ve so very, very rarely let him know that. If he were to die, I couldn’t possibly stand it. I would give him my legs, my hands, my brain. If I thought he’d get better.” He continued running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and John was surprised to see a single tear roll down Mycroft’s face.

“So would any of us. If we can eliminate the pain, or come as near to it as possible, it would help a lot. It’s hard to concentrate on things when every waking moment is about pain.”

“Hopefully I’ll at least be able to help him with that.”

“That will help him so much.”

They both looked at Sherlock as he jerked in his sleep and whimpered.

“Shhh,” John said, hugging him tighter. “It’s alright. You’re safe. No one can hurt you.”

“It’s alright, Brother Mine.”

Eventually Sherlock calmed and went back to sleep.”

Mycroft reached out and covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. And Sherlock slept, the man he loved more than life and his brother keeping watch over him.

 

Whenever Sherlock woke in the next few hours, it was only to have liquids. They’d given him a catheter to avoid moving him. And when he’d assured himself that John and Mycroft were there, he went back to sleep.

Greg brought Sherlock’s bear to him. “Is this his?” Greg had asked.

“He had a bad nightmare. He wanted me but wouldn’t let them send for me so the doctor got him that. It calms him when he’s upset.”

Greg looked closely at the bear and half smiled. “He kind of looks like you. Specially the little round tummy.”

“Oy,” John said. “I’ll have you know I’ve gone down two sizes.”

Greg sobered quickly. “I think we all have, mate. Since this all started. How is he?”

“They’re keeping him drugged. The pain is too much.”

Greg came over and looked down at Sherlock. “I forget, sometimes, how young he looks. He doesn’t look any older than the first time I saw him.”

“He cares so much for all of us. He’s always thought of himself as above feelings, but his heart, I think, is so huge, so caring. We all owe him so much,” John said.

“And it’s time we helped pay him back.” Greg turned to Mycroft. “We’ve had a couple of sightings of the animals that attacked him. We’re closing in. I assume those two repulsive men are going to the same place the rest of them went?”

Mycroft nodded. “If you’d like to come along, you’d be more than welcome. I think Sherlock needs you too much for you to come, John.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. Could you two help me? I’ve really got to take this coat off and I need the loo and a drink.”

Mycroft and Greg helped move Sherlock so John could get up. As soon as John removed his coat and shut the door to the loo, Sherlock began to moan in his sleep. “John . . . John . . .” he said quietly.

Mycroft reached out and touched his hand. “It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe here. No one can hurt you.”

Sherlock was reaching out, trying the find the warmth that had left. “He’ll be right back,” Mycroft whispered.

Sherlock calmed a bit and started to breathe heavily again.

John came back and took a huge drink of water before they helped him move back into bed.

“He was reaching out for you when you were gone,” Greg said.

“He’s so vulnerable right now. It’s not going to take much to push him over the edge. He’s so afraid his mind is going to completely go. He needs to be home. We can control what he sees and hears then. Greg, can you do your best to make sure the media doesn’t get a hold of this?”

“Nobody on my team will talk, but Mycroft any of the security guards or nurses or doctors, anyone could leak it.”

“I’ll threaten a huge lawsuit. If I fine out anyone says anything there will be hell to pay.”

“It’s just . . . we have to keep him safe. His poor body can’t take anymore of this, let alone his mind. All the furor over the leak and the video will die down eventually. But he needs to know that he has a solid wall of people that are there to keep him safe. He’s scared now because he’s helpless. And it’s up to us to keep him out of any situation where he has to defend himself. Until he’s stronger, until he can handle it, I think we should encourage his wanting to stay in at 221B. Going outside right now would only lead to confrontations, people taking pictures, possible press. He just can’t handle it now.”

Mycroft and Greg nodded.

“I’m going to double the guard at two hundred and twenty one B. A mouse won’t be able to get into the building without being noticed.”

“And if the press comes around, I’ll arrest them for trespassing,” Greg added.

“Good. Now, if we can just get him home.”

“How long do you think?” Mycroft asked.

“At least a few days. He’s full of stitches. It’s going to be very painful. When your pain medication comes, I’d like him monitored for a few days in case there’re side effects.”

“It should be here today.”

“Good. At least he’ll be able to be awake. And the levels of old painkillers should be down enough.”

Mycroft’s mobile pinged. “Anthea’s texting me. They’ve caught them. They’re being transported to the facility now.” 

“Good.”

 

Later that afternoon, the new medication arrived. Sherlock’s doctor was hesitant to use it. John read the literature with it. It was strong, and it did have side effects. He thought, though, that Sherlock needed to be consulted.

They woke him up and, though still a bit woozy, Sherlock readily agreed.

They injected Sherlock with the drug soon after. He was shaking from the pain, blinking his eyes to keep the tears at bay. He was squeezing John’s hand so tight that John winced. “Just give it a bit of time, Sherlock. It won’t work all at once.”

“Everything hurts, John. Everything.” 

“I know it hurts. It’ll be okay.”

Slowly, the tension seemed to start draining from Sherlock. His hand loosened in John’s. The lines of pain around his eyes and mouth started to go away.

“I . . . I think it’s working. The pain isn’t as bad.”

“What level?” John asked.

“8. Maybe 7.5.”

John smiled. “It’s just starting. Maybe it’ll go down a lot more.” 

Over the next hour, Sherlock said his pain had gone down to 3, maybe 2.5.

Sherlock, John, and Mycroft broke into smiles. “It worked, John. Oh, it worked. The pain’s almost gone.” Tears of relief were running down Sherlock’s face.

“I’m so happy for you,” John said.

“Thank you, My,” Sherlock said. He held out his arms and Mycroft hugged him.

“Oh, Little Brother, no thanks are required. I’m so glad it worked. We can see if we can tweak the dosage a bit. It might even make you pain-free.” 

“Wouldn’t that be something? I don’t know if I can remember being pain-free. It’s been so oppressively there that it seems a lifetime ago since I felt like this.”

John felt happy. Sherlock was smiling. Smiling after suffering such a terrible attack. It was a miracle. It was probably something that wouldn’t last, but John would take it. 

“John, when can I go home?”

“Just a while longer. You’re still full of stitches, and we need to monitor you while you’re on your new medication.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “But someone will stay with me, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’ve made a list. Everyone volunteered. There are two of my men at the door and one down the hall. No one’s getting in. And you should know, we’ve captured the two men that attacked you. They can’t ever get to you again.”

Sherlock nodded, his face serious. He looked down at his hands and swallowed hard. “Th . . . thank you, My. H . . . has Dr. Cooper been around?”

“You’ve been unconscious. And he’s rather chagrined about what happened.”

“He couldn’t have known what would happen. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Yes, of course not. Still, my lawyers are preparing to sue the hospital for a quite considerable amount of money. All of which will go to you, of course.”

Sherlock nodded. “They should have kept me safe,” he whispered.

“Yes, they should have,” John said. “But the two are locked away in a dark, dank hole.”

“Yes. I shall attend to them soon,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock’s eyes got wide. “They’re in your prison?”

“Along with the men who kidnapped you as well as the lawyers. The man who contacted the lawyers is in custody in Istanbul. He’ll be here tomorrow. And never to see sunlight again. I won’t be able to be here tomorrow. I’m going to supervise his interrogation. We’ll know who’s behind this by late tomorrow. I will use whatever means necessary. You’ll have nothing to worry about, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded again. “Good. In a few days, I’ll be safe, my pain is manageable, and I’ll be home. I’ll be home.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I’m glad to see you feeling better.”

“So am I.”

Mrs. Hudson came an hour later, as Mycroft and John got ready to go.

“You let us know if you need anything,” John told Sherlock.

“I will.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine. Won’t we, dear?”

Sherlock smiled at her as she bent and kissed his forehead.

“I’ve missed you so much. 221B just isn’t the same without you in it. I’ve been lonely for you.”

“Just a few more days, and I’ll be coming home.”

“That’s wonderful.” She fussed with his blankets to make sure he was comfortable.

John and Mycroft started for the door.

“Thank you. Thank you both for how much you’ve done for me. I really appreciate it. So, so much,” Sherlock said.

“Of course, we would do anything for you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“Anything at all,” John echoed.

After they left, Mrs. Hudson sat down. 

“Did they tell you that Mycroft’s got a new drug for me? The pain is manageable.” 

“Oh, Sherlock. That’s wonderful. I’m so pleased for you.” She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Um . . . did . . . did they tell you what else happened?”

Her face sobered. “Yes, they did. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can get you?”

“There’s a food station down the hall by the nurses’ station. Maybe some ice water?”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock picked up his bear and held it tight against his chest. He missed John. But the bed smelled of him and holding the bear helped. He knew John would never be his, would only visit when he could, but it didn’t make the sting of missing him go away. If Sherlock had his wish, he and John would never be apart.

Mrs. Hudson returned with his water and helped him drink it.

“That’s a very nice bear,” she said.

Sherlock started to turn red. “I know it looks funny, a grown man with a teddy bear, but I needed it when John wasn’t here.”

“I understand. You love him so much. And I know it hurts that he doesn’t feel the same. But this looks just like him, now, doesn’t it?”

“The doctor got it for me. He put some of John’s aftershave on it.”

“It does smell like him,” she admitted.

“So, tell me all of the gossip I’ve missed and what’s happening on Corry?”

Mrs. Hudson started, with a huge grin on her face, to fill him in on Mrs. Turner and the married men, and everyone else on the street. Then she told him every detail of the goings on on Coronation Street.” 

“I’ll be so glad to be home to watch it again with you.”

“I can’t wait, either. It just doesn’t seem right watching without you.”

He smiled at her for a moment before a rumbling in his intestines caused a worried look to come onto his face.

“Mrs. Hudson, could you get a nurse and an orderly, please?”

“Are you alright?”

“Please, hurry.”

Mrs. Hudson rushed out of the room, returning a few minutes later with the requested nurse and orderly.

“Mrs. Hudson, could you step out just for a second?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure.”

When she was gone, the nurse asked what was wrong.

“I think I’m about to have a bowel movement,” he whispered, his whole face red. “I . . . I don’t know if I can control it.”

The orderly got him out of bed as the nurse grabbed his IV stand and the catheter bag. They got him in the loo and carefully took down his nappy.

His intestines rumbled and rumbled. Sherlock tensed up, afraid of how much it was going to hurt and of the risk of infection. He could feel it coming and it hurt like hell. He tried his best not to scream, but it wasn’t easy. 

“Oh God,” he moaned. “It hurts. It really hurts.”

“Be careful. Don’t bear down or you could tear your stitches,” the nurse warned.

“Can’t you do something?” he asked as sweat broke out on his face and tears began to brim in his eyes.

“Go get Dr. Sanders,” the nurse told the orderly.

He left the room. A concerned Mrs. Hudson had heard Sherlock’s moans and was sure something was wrong. 

Sherlock grabbed at the sink on one side and the disabled bar on the other side. The pain was awful. 

“Please make it stop,” he asked, turning his pleading eyes to the nurse.

“I can’t. It’s got to come on its own.”

She reached out and took his hand. Sherlock felt a rush from deep inside him and something pushed it hard, expanding his damaged sphincter enough to make him scream. Whatever it was, was pure liquid and seemed to go on forever. It stung terribly. When it was finally over, Sherlock felt incredibly weak and was shaking.

The doctor and orderly came in just then. Sherlock started to collapse, but the orderly caught him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll have to examine you to make sure none of the stitches tore.”

There was a bottle there with a long spout on it. The nurse got the orderly to hold Sherlock while she squeezed water and dabbed at him.

The orderly picked him up as the nurse grabbed the IV stand and catheter bag. Sherlock looked over his shoulder and was shocked to find the toilet bowl full of blood.

“It’s alright. It’s expected,” the doctor said.

Sherlock could feel himself bleeding, the drops spattering on the floor. The orderly held him while the nurse placed a big pad on the bed.

When Sherlock was laid down, he felt horribly, awfully exposed. His face turned red and the shaking intensified.

“It’s alright,” the doctor said. “This is perfectly normal. You’ve likely torn some stitches. Can you bend your knees?”

“No. My legs don’t work.”

“Right.” He turned to the orderly and nurse. “Could you hold his legs, please?”

As he was spread open, Sherlock knew what was coming next. The doctor put on a latex glove, and Sherlock panicked.

“Please. Please don’t.”

“I have to. You may need to be restitched.” 

“Please don’t touch me there. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I know you’ve been traumatized but I have to check for damage.”

Sherlock was crying now.

“I’ll be as quick as possible.”

Sherlock felt the finger touch him and slip inside. He screamed in pain as the finger probed him. The doctor didn’t seem to be in any hurry to stop. Sherlock flashed back to the warehouse, then to the rape a few nights’ before. Back and forth, back and forth. “Stop it! Stop it! Don’t hurt me anymore, please! Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Please stop!”

The finger was removed.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry for the uncomfortableness but you’ve torn a few stitches. We’re going to have to go in and restitch.”

Sherlock didn’t hear a word. “Please, please don’t hurt me again. Please don’t touch. Please. John, where’s John?”

Mrs. Hudson barged into the room along with Mycroft’s two guards. “What the hell are you doing to him?” she demanded as she reached Sherlock’s side. She paid no attention to his nakedness but was shocked by the blood oozing out of him.

“I had to perform an examination. He had a rather bloody bowel movement, and I needed to check for torn stitches. I’m going to have to fix them.” 

Sherlock was whimpering. His eyes were glazed. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Mrs. Hudson took his hand and stroked his hair. “It’s alright, Sherlock. You aren’t in the warehouse or with those awful men. It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re with me.”

After a few more minutes, Sherlock’s eyes seemed to clear. “Mrs. Hudson?” he asked weakly.

“You’re alright, dear. It’s alright.”

“Mr. Holmes, I’m going to have to take you to surgery and restitch you. Given your . . . outburst, I think it’s safest to sedate you.”

“Where did you get your medical degree?” Mrs. Hudson said. “Did you save up enough box tops? This man has suffered so much in the past few months. He’s been tortured and raped. And you seem to have gone out of your way to traumatize him. You could have called me in to calm him. Get out! You’re not touching him again.”

“Madam, you have no say in this man’s treatment. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

“Boys, I’m sure Mycroft would be appalled by his brother’s treatment here. Could you escort the doctor out?”

“Yes, ma’am,” one of them said. Each grabbed an arm and pulled the doctor out the door.

Mrs. Hudson turned to the nurse. “Go find him a decent doctor, now!”

The nurse scurried from the room. The orderly just stared at her. “Cover him up at least,” she said.

She turned back to Sherlock. “It’s alright. It’s alright, Sherlock. He won’t hurt you. You need to be unconscious for just a bit so they can fix your stitches. You think you can be brave for me, just a bit longer?”

He nodded as she wiped the tears from his face. “D . . . don’t let them touch me there. Please.”

“Not while you’re conscious. They’ll have to go through me. It’ll just be a few minutes for them to fix you right up. Okay?”

He nodded again. “I . . . I’m sorry I’m such a baby a . . . about it.”

“None of that talk. If what happened to you had happened to me, I would never have survived it. You, my dearest boy, are the strongest person I know. I’m going to sic your brother on that doctor. He’ll be lucky if he just ends up somewhere in the South Seas.”

Sherlock half-smiled. No one messed with Mrs. Hudson or the people she loved.

Another doctor came into the room as the orderly disappeared into the loo to start cleaning it.

“What’s going on? I heard you had a doctor forcibly ejected from this room.”

“He went out of his way to traumatize Sherlock.”

The doctor turned to the nurse behind him. “Is this true?”

“Mr. Holmes was sexually assaulted before he came to the hospital and was sexually assaulted by two assailants a few nights ago. He had an extremely painful and bloody bowel movement and the doctor was checking for torn stitches. Mr. Holmes objected. He begged him not to touch him. The doctor ordered the orderly and me to hold Mr. Holmes’s legs and he did, to my mind, an overly long examination. Mr. Holmes was screaming and, given that I’ve seen them before, was having flashbacks to his earlier attacks. He’s only calmed down because his friend is here.”

“Well . . . the doctor who was in here before should certainly not have done that. Did he say there was tearing?”

“Yes,” the nurse replied.

“Mr. Holmes, if I promise not to touch your private area, can I just have a look to see if you’re still bleeding?”

Sherlock nodded as Mrs. Hudson held his hand.

The doctor lifted up Sherlock’s gown. And looked. “I’m afraid we are going to have to fix those stitches. We’ll give you an anaesthetic so you won’t be aware of what’s going on. Is that alright?”

Sherlock nodded, though he began to shake again.

“It’s alright, dear. You won’t know anything about it. They’ll fix you right up.”

“A . . . a . . . alright,” he whispered. 

Mrs. Hudson bent down and kissed his forehead. “You’ll be right as rain. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Would you?”

“Of course I would.” She smiled at him. “That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“If you wear a mask and gown, it should be fine. It’s only a few stitches.”

Mrs. Hudson held his hand all the way downstairs and kept telling him he’d be okay until the drugs kicked in and he fell asleep. She ignored the doctor and nurse as they worked and ran her fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

The doctor and nurse moved away from Sherlock.

“All done?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Yes. There wasn’t much to be done. There were four popped stitches. We’ve also cleaned the area, and we’ll give him some strong antibiotics. I’m not sure we’ll be able to avoid infection, but we’ll give it a try and monitor his temperature.”

“How long will he be unconscious?”

“Oh, we gave him a very low dose. He’ll only be out long enough to clean him up and get him back to his room. If you’d like to go back up, the nurses will get him cleaned up and back upstairs in a few minutes.”

“Alright. I want to be there when he wakes up.”

When Mrs. Hudson got back to the room, she called both John and Mycroft and told them what happened, reassuring them that Sherlock was okay and not alone. They both wanted to come back but both sounded utterly exhausted. “Come in the morning,” she said. She knew Molly was coming to spend the night and would be the best one, besides John, to watch for infection.

Mycroft and John were both furious about Sherlock’s treatment, and Mycroft vowed to make the doctor pay.

“That’s exactly what I told Sherlock. We thought perhaps the South Seas would be a good posting.”

Mycroft actually chuckled. “Good idea.”

“He’ll be back in a few minutes. The operation went well. I think he’ll be alright. Molly’ll know what to look for. I’ll ask her to call you if something happens, Mycroft. I truly think the absolute best thing for him is to go home. The longer he stays here, I think, the more he’s going to want to go. Can’t you get one of your doctors to monitor him at home?”

“I will look into it. I think you’re right. I will do my best to have him out tomorrow. I may need to move equipment into the flat.”

“Of course, anything he needs. Oh, he’s coming back. I’ll speak with you later, Mycroft.”

“Thank you for being there for him, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Always.”

They wheeled Sherlock’s bed back into the room. He was pale and semi-conscious.

As they worked on him, setting up his IVs and making sure he was comfortable.

Mrs. Hudson reached out to touch his hand and hold it in hers.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” she said. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” a weak voice asked as his eyes fluttered open.

“I’m here, dear.”

He looked at her, his eyes blurry. “They’re all done?”

“Yes. Nothing’s left for them to do. They don’t need to touch you anymore.”

“Thank you for being here for me. For protecting me.”

“Of course I’d protect you. I have some good news. Given what happened today, your brother is making arrangements for you to go home tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock sounded excited.

“He’s going to get one of the doctors who worked on the pain medication plus you’ll have your caregivers and, no doubt, John. You’ll be fine, and you won’t be alone. Molly’s coming after awhile. She’ll spend the night with you.”

“Can . . . can I have m . . . my bear?” he asked, his eyes downcast.

“Of course.” She handed him the bear from the table. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s your version of John. The version that helps when he’s not there. The version you can tell your thoughts and feelings to. I understand, dear. You love John. And I so wish, I wish with all of my heart, that he could love you the same way.”

“But he never will,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’d love to give you what you need most.”

“You love me,” Sherlock said.

“You need someone in your life that loves you the way you love John. And I’m not just talking about sex. I’m talking about deep love.”

“I wish I felt like I deserved it. I don’t deserve John. He’s much too good for me.”

“John is a fine man, but you are too, Sherlock. You’re brave and giving and loving. You need to have someone to hold you and tell you how much you mean to them.”

“No one will ever love me like that. Not like John loves Mary. I’m damaged.”

“You’re not damaged. There are things you can’t do but that doesn’t mean no one can love you.”

“My whole body is covered in scars. They cut up my face. I can’t do anything for myself. Now I may have to wear nappies for the rest of my life. And after what’s happened, I probably will never be able to have sex with anyone. Everyone seems to put much importance to that.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. Sex isn’t everything. I think you’re heartbroken and feel lonely, but you can find someone.”

“My heart wants John, only John. Now and forever. Even if he weren’t married, even if he weren’t heterosexual, he couldn’t love me. John loves sex, and I don’t think I can do it. I wanted him to be the first . . . the only one to ever touch me.”

“You mean you were a . . . a virgin?”

Sherlock nodded and quietly whimpered. 

“Oh Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

“I was going to give myself to him when I came back. B . . . but he was in love with M . . . Mary. And I know that my heart was b . . . broken forever.”

“Oh Sherlock. How it must have hurt to be his best man.”

“I said the words Mary said under my breath. I closed my eyes when he said ‘I do’ and wished with all my heart he was saying it to me. I saw Mary look at me when I opened my eyes. She must have noticed.”

“So your best man speech was your way to telling him, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose . . . in my own way. I wanted him to love me back so much.”

“And that’s why you left early.”

“H . . . he never noticed. He never called or even t . . . texted me. That’s why I went back on the d . . . drugs.” Sherlock was quietly sobbing. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. How c . . . could he forget me? Doesn’t he care at . . . at all?”

“Of course he does. I can’t excuse his behaviour. He shouldn’t have left you alone for so long.”

“He . . . he was with the one he l . . . loved. He d . . . doesn’t need me a . . . anymore. He stays around because he f . . . feels obligated.” 

“He does love you. You’re his best friend.”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “When I’m okay. When I’m settled. When the baby comes, he’ll leave.”

“Never. He may not be able to come around as much, but he’ll be there for you.”

“I just wish it would all go away. I wish I could be like I was before. Do you mind if I go away for a bit? I created a place in my mind. In it, John’s there. We’re at 221B and he loves me. If I go there, I’m whole again.”

“Of course, dear. You go. Go and be with John. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Only when she was sure that Sherlock was inside his head, did she allow herself to cry.

 

Inside his head, Sherlock met John at the door. John stood on his toes and pulled Sherlock’s face to his, kissing him deeply. “I missed you.”

“Sherlock reached up to touch John’s face. “I missed you too, love.”

“Come to bed?”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him again. He took John’s hand and led him into the bedroom.

After they’d made love, John lay with his head on Sherlock’s chest gently rubbing his fingers through Sherlock’s chest hair.

“What’s wrong, love?” John asked.

“Hmmm? Nothing. I’m exactly where I want to be the most in the world, with the person I most want to be with. You’re my whole life, John.” He kissed the top of John’s head.

John lifted his head and smiled at Sherlock. “Me too, babe. Me too. I love you so much.” He set his chin on Sherlock’s chest looking at him.

Sherlock kissed the end of his nose. “I love you more than life itself.”

John sighed happily and put his head back down, snuggling into Sherlock.

 

When Sherlock came out of his head, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

He nodded and she helped him with a drink of water. “I can’t wait to get home and have a cup of your tea.”

She smiled. “Did you have a good visit with John?”

Sherlock turned a bit red.

“Ah, it was that kind of fantasy.” She smiled. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. You do love him after all.”

Sherlock smiled. “Is it nearly dinner time? I’m hungry.”

“It’ll still be liquids, I imagine.”

“I’m sick of that already.”

“I know, but you’ll have to be healed a bit more before you can have solid food.”

“Will you make me your chicken stew when they say I can have that?”

“Of course I will.”

“I . . . I know I’m a lot of trouble. I’m sorry for that.”

“You aren’t trouble. You need help. If it was me, would you think I was trouble?”

“No. I care about you. I would do anything for you, no question.”

She smiled. “And we would do the same for you.”

“But why?”

“Because we love you.”

“I can’t understand why. I’m not Sherlock anymore.”

“Of course you are, dear. You are Sherlock. You’re that young man who saved me from my husband.”

“No, I’m not. He’s gone. I’m not anything like him.”

“You’re not a different person.”

“Maybe if I still had my mind, maybe it would be alright. But I’m nothing now. My transport doesn’t work and my mind is gone.”

“You’re more than your body and your mind. You’re you. There’s nothing you can do to change that.”

“I wish I could be me again. I feel like I’m lost.”

“I can understand that, Sherlock. But you’re still you.” She squeezed his hand.

“The old me would be mortified to see me like this. I look like a skeleton with pasty white skin stretched over it. It used to secretly please me that men and women were attracted to me. Now no one is. They look away from me or they don’t look at all or they stare like I’m a monster.”

“You aren’t a monster. You look different. But you aren’t a monster. You’ll never be that.”

“I want to look the way I used to look. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.” He hugged his bear tight to his chest. “I’ve had to be strong all my life. But now, I don’t have any strength left. I . . . I need someone to be s . . . strong for me. I just want to go home and lay in my bed for the rest of my life.”

“Let us be strong for you. Let us look after you.”

“I . . . I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You aren’t. Oh, you’ll never be that.”

Mrs. Hudson sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him into her arms. It frightened her how little he weighed. She could feel all the bones in his spine, every rib. 

He sobbed into her shoulder. “I . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m so weak.”

“You aren’t.” She held him until the sobbing subsided. 

He looked up when he heard the door open. It was Dr. Cooper.

“Hello, Sherlock. I just wanted to check on you. I heard what happened with Dr. Sanders. I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Hudson gently laid Sherlock back down. “You should be. This hospital is a disgrace.”

“Do you feel up to a session?”

“Does it have to be an hour?”

“As long as you like.”

“Can Mrs. Hudson stay?”

“If you want her to.”

“Alright.”

Dr. Cooper started the session asking how he felt.

Sherlock told him about feeling violated, feeling vulnerable and helpless, feeling absolutely tired of being strong, wanting to go home.

Dr. Cooper told him all of those feelings were understandable. 

“I don’t want to feel like a target for the rest of my life. I don’t want to always think someone’s coming for me. That I’ll always need Mycroft’s men to keep me safe.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a reality right now. You have to accept that you have limitations. The feeling of vulnerability is going to continue to be with you. You’ve suffered two extremely traumatic events. It’s to be expected.”

“But I was better. I was much better.”

“Yes, you were. But you’ve suffered another significant trauma. And I understand not feeling safe here. I don’t blame you. And going home may just be what you need. Your brother called me and told me about the plans he’s made. I’ll still come and see you. And he said he will have a doctor there to look after you. I want you to feel safe.”

“I will when I go home.”

“It’s good that you’ve come around to that. Home is the best place for you, with your family and friends.”

They talked for another half hour, and Sherlock became calmer.

By the time they were finished, dinner arrived. Mrs. Hudson fed him the clear soup and tea. It was pretty bland, but at least there was ice cream for dessert.

When they were done, Mrs. Hudson read to him from one of his case files.

By seven, Molly had shown up and Mrs. Hudson greeted her.

“I brought you some tea, Sherlock,” she said as she bent down and kissed his cheek.

“I think I’ll go home. It’s been a long day. And I want to be ready for you when you come home.” Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Your brother told me what happened today, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. That doctor had no right to treat you that way.” Molly squeezed his hand.

“I’m okay, Molly. I’m going home tomorrow.” Sherlock almost smiled. “And Mycroft’s doctors gave me a new drug. The pain’s almost completely gone.”

She smiled. “I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to see you home. If you want anything at all, you just have to call me, you know.”

“Mycroft has arranged for a permanent doctor, in addition to my caregiver, until I’ve healed from this latest . . . violation.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“It’s alright,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I couldn’t stop it, Molly. I tried. I really tried but I was absolutely helpless. They did whatever they wanted. They . . . hurt me. And I have to face the fact that I might never be able to protect myself.”

“You have us to protect you now. You’ve always protected us. Now it’s our turn.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

“Sherlock, I know that you don’t like this. I don’t blame you. But you have all of us.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You’re ours, Sherlock. You’ll always be our Sherlock, and we’re always going to love you.”

“Thanks, Molly. I’m so utterly exhausted. It’s been a bad day.” 

“Then you sleep. I’ll be here to make sure you’re safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this chapter. The next one is going to be a good one. A new character is introduced and things really get moving. As always, I love comments and appreciate every one of them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns home. A surprise character is introduced as a powerful and unexpected revelation rocks everyone's world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the tags.

Mycroft’s car pulled up outside the prison, and he got out as soon as the driver opened the door. The tip of his umbrella clicked on the concrete as he made his way inside. He waited patiently for the elevator. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he had managed a few hours of sleep.

A slow-burning fury had settled itself in his chest. The man waiting for him downstairs would be the recipient of it. 

The elevator deposited him on the bottom floor. Two men stood outside a door and one of them opened it for him. He went in and sat down on the chair provided. 

A man was hanging by his wrists from the ceiling. He was naked, and the smell of sweat wafted through the room.

“Who are you? How dare you do this? Let me go. I can have you killed in a moment.”

“You don’t seem to be able to do much of anything right at the moment,” Mycroft coldly said. “I thought you might enjoy being in the same position in which my little brother spent much of five days.”

The man stilled and fear flashed over his face. “M . . . Mycroft Holmes,” he whispered.

“Ah, you’ve heard of me.” 

“I . . . was warned about you.”

Mycroft smiled. “How delightful. Then I can disperse with the tedium of making threats. Though I suppose a bit of visual evidence might be useful.” Mycroft snapped his fingers. One by one, Sherlock’s attackers were brought in, naked, filthy, and blinking blearily at the light, one in a wheelchair. “As you can see, each of the men you hired has been suitably punished. One lost the use of his legs, the other his arms and finger, one had the skin whipped off his back, another brain damaged, and one had his eye torn out and his face scarred. And, as you see, we’ve made sure they can’t rape anyone again. Right now, they reside in tiny, dark cells. They are monitored twenty-four hours a day and fed once per day.” Mycroft sniffed. “Apparently they aren’t washing. This is the first they’ve been out of their cells since we punished them.” Mycroft nodded and the silent men were taken back to their cells.

“As you are closer to the person responsible for the kidnapping, torture, mutilation, and rape of my brother, your punishment will be all the more devastating. However, if you’re willing to tell me who’d behind all of this, I may allow you to keep your testicles.”

“I can’t . . . I’ll be killed.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. You won’t be seeing the outside again. I have a lovely, little cell for you too. So you have no reason not to talk.”

“I can’t.”

“You use the pseudonym Richard Brook, but you’re real name is Cyril Barnes. Richard Brook was the name used by James Moriarty when he framed my brother. Therefore, it’s quite obvious that you’re connected to him in some manner. Since Moriarty is, thankfully, dead as well as his second, Colonel Moran, then it has to be someone else within the organization. My brother took out everyone in the organization but it’s possible that someone low enough in the hierarchy got away . . .”

“This person knew what was going to happen and managed to get a hold of one of Moriarty’s bank accounts in Switzerland worth £500,000,000. They paid me and the lawyers and those men. But I don’t know more than that. All the communication was through the internet. I don’t know names. They didn’t want me to know who they were. That’s the truth, I swear.”

“And your computer?”

“It’s in a safe deposit box in London. The key’s in my flat, hidden in the DVD case of The Untouchables. Please. I’ve told you all I know. D . . . don’t hurt me.”

“Oh, I’m afraid it’s much too late for that. I will, however, allow you to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Since you were the go-between, I will allow you to choose three out of the five torments that my brother went through, and I’ll let you keep your testicles.”

“No. Please.”

“You choose or I’ll choose four.”

Tears were streaming down the man’s face. “Please.”

“I have places to go, choose now or I choose.”

“Whipping,” he said, sobbing, “the eye . . . Just the two, please.”

“Brain, legs, or arms?”

“Brain. At least I won’t know I’m a prisoner if I’m lucky.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Get him down. I don’t have time to savour this. And John and Greg will want to be here for it.” He turned back to the prisoner. “So you can sit in your cell and wait for it to come.”

Mycroft stood up and walked out to the elevator as the man screamed behind him.

Two men fell in step behind him. “Search his flat and retrieve the computer.”

As he got into the car, Mycroft was frustrated. Still another step away from finding the person who’d ruined his brother. His mind flashed to his curly hair, full of cake icing on his first birthday. The day he’d said his first word, “My!” His brilliant brother who had suffered all of his life and would suffer for the rest of it. Mycroft felt tears prickling in the corner of his burning eyes. He felt bone weary. “Home,” he said to the driver.

He pulled out his mobile and punched in a number he rarely used.

“I need your help,” he said. “Yes, well we can discuss that later. . . . It’s about Sherlock. . . . I’m close to finding the person behind this. . . . No, he’s not well. He was attacked in the hospital and sexually assaulted. . . . Yes, I’m taking care of it. . . . I’ll call your superior right now and arrange it. . . . Diogenes Club, at 9 a.m. . . . See you then.”

He punched in another number and, after a thirty second conversation, had cleared that up.

Mycroft leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. The driver shook him awake when they pulled up to his home. Mycroft wearily climbed the stairs, stripped out of his clothes, and collapsed onto the bed, dressed only in his pants. He set the alarm for seven and fell asleep immediately.

 

A cup of coffee and two cups of tea had failed to fully awaken Mycroft. He sat in his office at the Diogenes Club, staring quietly out the window.

He heard the door open and someone step in. He waited until they had approached the desk and sat down before he turned around.

“Mycroft,” the young man said, nodding.

“Ford,” he nodded back.

“Apparently I’ve been loaned to you like a library book. How is he?”

“I haven’t been there yet. He’s going home today. He had someone with him all night.”

“Should he be going home? He checked himself into the psychiatric hospital.”

“It’s where he needs to be. He locked himself away because he thought he’d be a burden to us. He was convinced we’d all leave him, so he made the first move. He’s in an unbelievable amount of pain, Ford. He needs to be with his family and his friends. And he needs to have some peace. This . . . person behind this, whoever it is, is continuing to hurt him over and over.”

“What do you mean?”

“A picture of him leaving the hospital in his wheelchair was released. And the entire kidnapping was released on the internet, and they . . . they sent him back his . . . his fingers.” Mycroft couldn’t help the crack in his voice.

“Oh God,” Ford said, scrubbing his hand across his face.

“He begged me. He begged John and me to take him to the hospital to reattach them. That was the closest I’ve ever seen him to losing his mind.” 

“What can I do to help?”

“I questioned the man who took the offer from the person behind this to the lawyers of the men who kidnapped Sherlock. He said all of his communication with his employer was via the internet. We have his computer. If you could trace this person to their computer, we’d have them. However, they’re being very careful so I don’t think it will be that simple. We also know they were part of Moriarty’s organization. Someone close enough that they were able to clean out one of his accounts before we got to it — an account worth half a billion pounds. I can give you approximate dates for that and when amounts would have come out to pay the lawyers and those animals that were hired. Do you think you can trace all that?”

“If I can run Q branch for MI6, I think I can do this. I owe it to Sherlock. He did everything he could to stop me from doing what I did but, of course, I wouldn’t listen.”

“I’ll make sure you have everything.”

“My?” the young man said.

Mycroft looked up. 

“I’ve never thanked you properly for this. I’m . . . happy where I am. I wish I could see all of you, but I know that was part of the deal.”

“Hacking top secret government data wasn’t the most intelligent thing you’ve ever done.”

“And I’d be rotting in jail if it wasn’t for you and Sherlock. How are Mummy and Daddy?”

“They miss you. They really do. And the fact that they can’t even have pictures of you up . . . well, I’m sure Mummy has some hidden that we’ve never found.”

“I know working for MI6 meant I had to cut ties, but I do miss them. And you and Sherlock. Can . . . just this once, can I see him?”

Mycroft thought hard about it. Sherrinford had been out of their lives for so long. He wasn’t to have contact with the family, for their safety. But seeing his younger brother might help Sherlock.

“Alright. Let’s go now.”

“Thank you, My.”

 

Sherlock woke early, the pain thrumming through him again.

Molly was sitting beside him, reading from a book she’d brought.

“Molly, could you ask the doctor for my pain meds?”

“Sure. The pain’s bad?”

“Very much so.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The pain was coming back stronger and stronger as the doctor entered the room. He took Sherlock’s IV and injected it with the medication. A wave of coolness swept through Sherlock as the drug started to take effect. “Thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

“You’re welcome,” the doctor said. “This is a great medication. Hope it’ll be available soon.”

Molly peeked around the door. “Better?”

“Much.”

The orderly who looked after Sherlock came in, greeted Sherlock, and went in to run the bath.

“You want me to go?” Molly asked.

“No. It’s okay. You’re a doctor. It won’t be anything you haven’t seen before.”

A nurse came through the door. “We’ll be taking out the catheter today.”

Sherlock flushed red, but Molly took his hand and looked at him while the nurse did it and pulled off the adult nappy.

“The doctor’s going to want to look at your stitches, though I’m sure not to touch, before you go. The swelling’s gone down a bit and the redness.” She pulled his gown down as the orderly came back and lifted him from the bed. He asked Molly if she could wheel his IV pole in. She did and closed the door as she left the loo.

After Sherlock was bathed and shaved, the orderly carried him back to the freshly changed bed. Molly looked up. Sherlock’s face turned red.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. The doctor’s going to check your wounds and take out your IV. And we’ll get you dressed.”

The doctor came in and asked the orderly and Molly to hold Sherlock’s legs.

“Y . . . you won’t t . . . touch me there, w . . . will you?” Sherlock asked. Molly reached out and took his hand.

“No, Mr. Holmes. But you will have to have them checked internally. It will be, I’d say, at least three weeks before you’ll be back on solid food. And you’ll have to be on strong antibiotics to avoid infection.” The doctor bent down and looked closely. “It does appear the swelling has subsided a bit, but you’re still quite badly injured. I understand you’ll have a personal physician. I’ll make some notes.”

“I . . . can you tell me if . . . if I’m going to h . . . have to wear . . . nappies always?”

“It’s a bit early to tell. You felt your bowel movement coming and warned someone, but you may not be able to control it. The sphincter is torn, and the muscle may be damaged. But it may heal fine by the time you’re back on solid food. It may happen or it may not. You’ve got to give yourself time to heal. I understand this has happened before, but you were unconscious for quite a while afterward.” 

Sherlock nodded slowly as Molly and the orderly put his legs down. The orderly helped pull on an adult nappy.

The doctor washed his hands and put on a pair of latex gloves to remove Sherlock’s IV. He bandaged the area. “The damage from before has been torn open again and expanded. So this is a bit more severe. But there’s no reason to think that given time, you’ll be fine.”

“A . . . and if . . . if someday . . . do you think it would . . . that I could . . . have . . . sex?”

“Anal sex?” the doctor asked.

Sherlock was beet red as he looked away and nodded.

“No need to be embarrassed. It should heal. I wouldn’t recommend for at least a few months. And only with a partner who prepares you thoroughly and uses plenty of lubrication.”

Sherlock looked confused.

“Have you not had consensual intercourse before?”

Sherlock shook his head and squeezed Molly’s hand.

“I can get you some literature or you can do some research online.”

“It’s only a question. I . . . I don’t imagine I’ll ever have . . . sex.”

“There’s no reason to think you won’t be able to have a normal sex life.”

“It’s all a moot point. I don’t know why I asked. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No. It wasn’t a bother. It was a perfectly legitimate question. I think you should talk to Dr. Cooper about it.”

“I do.”

“Good. Well, I’ll sign your medical paperwork. If you want to get dressed, your breakfast should be here soon.” Molly helped dress him and sat him up in bed as his breakfast arrived. Molly fed him. He’d just finished when Mycroft arrived.

“Dr. Hooper. I take it that it was a quiet night.”

“Very. Sherlock got a good night’s sleep, didn’t you?”

Sherlock smiled. “Thanks for coming and staying, Molly.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Do you want me to come home with you and help you settle in?”

“You need some sleep,” Sherlock said, smiling. “Why don’t you come for dinner tonight?”

“That would be nice. You’re sure you’d be up for it?”

Sherlock nodded.

Molly leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Mycroft smiled and nodded at Molly as she left. He turned to Sherlock. “You look like you’re ready to go.”

“I want to get out of here.”

“I heard what happened with the doctor. I believe that the South Seas will be his new home in the next few days.”

Sherlock smiled. “Thank you, My.”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“Really?” The door opened.

Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes. “F . . . Ford?” he whispered.

“Hello, Lock,” Ford said, his voice breaking. He rushed towards the bed and gathered his brother into his arms.

Sherlock buried his face into Ford’s neck and started to cry. “I’ve missed you so much, little brother.”

“I’m so sorry, Lock. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have helped.”

“It’s enough to see you.” Sherlock pulled back and looked at his brother, smiling through the tears. “You look good. MI6 is agreeing with you.”

“I wish I could have been here with you.” Ford looked down and gasped. “Oh God, your hands. Your poor hands.” He picked them up and held them.

“You should see my legs. And my back and, well, you can see my face. Almost all of me is gone now. Just a shell. I’m not the same person and never will be. They destroyed my body. They broke my mind and my heart and my soul, Ford. There’s nothing left.”

Ford reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. “You’ll never be all gone, Sherlock. I see the love in your eyes. You still have your heart. Mycroft told me about John. As long as you love him, you know your heart’s still there. As long as you love me and My and Mummy and Daddy and your friends, you know your heart is there. They broke your body, they stole things from you they should never have taken. But you’re you, Sherlock. You’re my big brother. You can’t do things you used to do but I know just from being here for a few moments that my Lock is still here.” Ford wiped the tears from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock smiled. “You . . . you think so?”

“I know it.” Ford smiled back.

“Can you come and see me again? I’ve never told anyone about you, not even John. I want him to know about you.” Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “Can I tell him, My? Can I tell John?”

“Tell John what?” they heard from the door. John took in the sight of the young man sitting so close to Sherlock, holding his hand, and he felt a strange stab of jealousy.

“John, I . . . this . . .” Sherlock looked at Mycroft helplessly.

“John, what we’re going to tell you cannot leave this room. You can’t tell anyone, not even Mary.”

“Okay.”

“John, this is Sherrinford, well, we call him Ford. He’s our little brother,” Sherlock said.

“Y . . . your little brother?” John said, stunned.

“Yes. Mycroft told me about you. How important you are to Lock. How much you’ve done for him. I can’t thank you enough for helping him.” Ford stood up and came over to shake John’s hand.

John looked him up and down. He certainly had the Holmes height and Sherlock’s thick hair. “I made a mistake years ago. I inherited the family brilliance and turned it to computers. I also got the family arrogance and thought I was invincible. I broke into government computers and stole secrets. Mycroft kept me out of jail, just barely, but I had to go to work for MI6. And for that, I had to break links with the family. My parents don’t even have pictures of me. Sherlock and My can’t tell anyone about me. It’s been incredibly difficult but someday, I’m sure, I’ll be allowed to see my family again.”

“And they let you visit?”

“Not really. My called me in to help find the person behind Sherlock’s kidnapping.”

“There’s been a breakthrough?”

“I questioned the man who was the go-between.” Mycroft quickly filled John in. “And Ford’s going to track the bastard down.”

“And I . . . I’ll be safe?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ll always be safe,” Mycroft said. “John and I will make sure of it.”

Sherlock smiled. He looked at three of the men he loved most in the world. Only his father and Greg were missing. He wished that they could be here like this forever. 

“I really should go,” Ford said. “I don’t want to but I have to.” He went back to the bed and gathered Sherlock back into his arms and hugged him. “Maybe My can need me more often for things. Tell Mummy and Daddy that I love them and miss them. If you need anything, let me know.”

“C . . . can you get that video of me off the internet?”

“I’ll do my best. I promise. I love you, Lock.”

“I love you, Ford.”

Ford pulled away and touched his forehead to Sherlock’s.

“I want to remember you right as you are now,” Sherlock said. “But please remember me as I used to be. Not what I’m like now. Remember your big brother who read to you, who got you into trouble, and taught you chemistry and how to play pirates. Not this broken wreck.”

“You’re my brother, Sherlock. I love you no matter what.”

“But I’m not me anymore. I’ll never be me again.”

“I know you feel that way now. But it’ll be better. I know you’ll be better.”

“Promise me you’ll try and get in touch. You’ll try and see me.”

“I’ll do what I can. I promise.”

Ford hugged Sherlock tightly and kissed him on the forehead before he stood up. “Bye Lock.”

“Bye Ford.”

Ford smiled sadly and left the room.

“Thank you My,” Sherlock said.

“I hoped you’d be pleased to see him.”

“He looks good.”

“He does. And he told me he’s happy working there. He misses us, though.”

“Just as we miss him.”

“So you’ve kept his secret all these years?” John asked.

“It’s been hard on Mummy and Daddy. We had to fake Ford’s death. He goes by the name Quinton Hodge now,” Mycroft said.

“I miss him every day,” Sherlock said.

“I can imagine,” John replied.

“You will find a way for him to come and see me, right My?”

“I’ll try, Little Brother. I do miss him too you know.”

“I know.”

“But perhaps I can arrange for Ford to be leant out to my department more often. M owes me a lot and I may just call in my markers.”

Sherlock smiled, his whole face lighting up.

“Excited to go home?” John asked.

“Can I go now?”

“The doctor’s signed your release. Dr. Cooper will be by this afternoon, and the doctor I hired to look after you is waiting. And Mrs. Hudson is anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

John lifted Sherlock from the bed and into his wheelchair as Mycroft packed the few things Sherlock had in a duffel bag. As they went through the halls, Peter approached him.

“I see you’re going. Don’t blame you. I’m so sorry, what happened to you.” 

“Thank you. I’ll be okay. I hope. Thank you for letting me play games with you. Say goodbye to Kadir and Jacob for me too, will you?”

“I will.”

“Who was that?” John asked as they got in the elevator.

“Peter. He was the one who befriended me in the common room. He was very nice to me.”

“That’s great. See, you keep saying people will make fun of you, but he didn’t, did he?”

“No. I guess not. Can we stop and get some ice cream?”

“What?” Mycroft asked.

“Ice cream. I can’t have solids for three weeks. At least that’s what the doctor told me. But I’d like to have some ice cream. Maybe strawberry.”

John smiled. “Okay. I don’t see why not.”

Sherlock was very excited the whole ride home, despite the discomfort of sitting. When they turned the corner to Baker Street, he was smiling.

Mrs. Hudson stood, beaming, at the door.

John got out and Mycroft’s driver got Sherlock’s wheelchair out of the back. John lifted Sherlock and placed him in the seat.

“What a nice welcoming committee,” Sherlock said.

“I’ve been waiting and waiting,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’ve made you a huge pot of tea.”

“Which I’ve been craving since I went in the hospital.”

They hurried upstairs, not noticing the man across the street taking pictures with his mobile.

As they got inside, Sherlock felt the familiarness of home. He took in the sitting room and the kitchen as they sat down to have Mrs. Hudson’s tea.

“I’m sorry that I worried everyone. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

Mycroft patted his shoulder. “You did what you thought best, Brother Mine. Don’t worry about it.”

Mycroft introduced Sherlock to Dr. Roberts, his on-site doctor until he was well again. And, of course, Sam was there.

After the tea, Dr. Roberts insisted Sherlock lay down so as not to put anymore undue stress on his stitches. He also wanted to get the IV antibiotics started again. John carried Sherlock into bed. The doctor checked him over and inserted the IV.

“The doctor at the hospital had said it would be three weeks before I could go back on solid food.”

“I’ve read your file. That sounds about right. I will have to check your stitches every day to make sure there’s no infection. I know you don’t want to be touched there, but it is necessary for you well being.”

Sherlock felt his heart start to beat faster, his breath coming faster as well.

John sat down beside him and took his hand. “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

“I . . . I can’t. Please John. Please.”

“I know you don’t want anyone to touch you, but you can’t get an infection. You were examined like this when you were in the hospital before. You were unconscious. I know you hate this. But your doctor won’t hurt you, or will try not to. You were hurt very badly, Sherlock. You have to take care of yourself.”

“Can you be here with me when he does it?”

“If you want me too.”

“Please.”

“I promise whenever you want to do it, I will be here. I’ll hold your hand.”

“Alright.”

“Good. I promise that I won’t do anything without telling you what I’m about to do. I will be here from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. There will be a doctor on standby if you need anyone between 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. Your psychiatrist will be visiting every day as well. I understand that your pain medication is experimental. I’ve read up on it and will be keeping an eye out for any side effects. I also think you’re very underweight. I’ll be monitoring your dietary intake.”

“What do you think I should be drinking?”

“There are nutritional shakes. I’ve let your brother know, and he’ll be putting in a store of them.”

“Can I have some ice cream? We brought some.”

Dr. Roberts smiled. “If you’d like I just don’t want you to lose anymore weight before you can go back on solid food.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll leave you alone. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sherlock said.

“Can I get you anything?” John asked.

“Can . . . can you lie here with me? Just for a few minutes. I missed you, John.”

“I missed you too.” John stood up and took off his coat and shoes. He lay beside Sherlock and pulled him into his arms. Sherlock laid his face against John’s chest, listening to him breathing, his heart beating. 

“How do you feel?”

“Home. I’m home, John. I still feel broken. But at least I’m home. I feel safe now. No one will hurt me here. No one will take advantage of me here. No one will stare or talk about me.”

“Of course not. There’re only people who love you here.”

They heard the lift start.

“I wonder who it is,” Sherlock said.

“Want me to go and see?”

“No. Mycroft will deal with them.”

“Where is he? Where’s my son?” a familiar voice said.

John started to get up. “Your parents.”

Mummy and Daddy came into the room.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mummy said as she sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I shouldn’t have stayed away. My poor, poor boy.” She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. “I will never forgive myself for what I did.”

“It’s alright, Mummy,” Sherlock said. “It’s alright. You’re here now.”

Daddy sat down on the opposite side and took Sherlock’s hand. “We should have been here long before now.”

“I know you love me. I know you do,” Sherlock was sobbing by now.

John hated to see Sherlock so upset but he knew he needed to make peace with his parents. John ducked out of the room.

Sherlock sat up and came into his mother’s arms. “I . . . I missed you. It hurt so much. Everything hurt. B . . . but I’m glad to be home. I’m glad that you’re here.”

“We missed you too, Sherlock,” Mummy said as she hugged him tightly. “Oh, oh, Sherlock. You’re much, much too thin. You’re so pale.”

“I wanted to feel safe. And I fell safe here. My won’t let anyone hurt me here.”

“Of course he won’t,” his father said. He moved over and hugged Sherlock too.

“My life’s so different now, so . . . hard. I can’t do anything. I’ve lost my work, my experiments, my music. I’ve lost myself. I’m not Sherlock anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” his mother said. “You’ll always be my Sherlock. My son.”

“But I’ll never be brilliant again. I can’t deduce. I feel so useless. I’ll be here for the rest of my life. I can’t defend myself, and I’ve made so many enemies. I have to hide here to be safe.”

“You’ll be alright, my boy. You are so loved, so cherished. Your mother and I, your brother, your friends, John. We all love you.”

“How can you? After what they did to me? They . . . they hurt me.”

“I know they did. I know. But you’re safe here. You’re safe and warm and surrounded by love. You’ll never be alone. You have us,” Mummy said.

“I want to be myself. I’m utterly lost. I’m trying. I’m trying to do what everyone wants and pretend that there’s something left for me, but it’s so hard.”

“There’ll be something for you. You still have a future, son,” Daddy said.

“No work. I have to try and find something to fill my mind. And I have to accept that romantic love is something I’ll never have. I wish I could. I don’t think anyone could ever love me like that.”

“There’ll be someone,” Mummy said.

“How? No one wants someone broken and mutilated like me. It hurts so much to be alone, more than anything that they did to me. I don’t know if I can be strong enough to handle my life anymore.”

“We’ll be strong for you. We’ll take the burden from you. And you don’t know the future.” She pulled away to look at him. “Not even Sherlock Holmes knows the future.”

“It looks bitter and bleak.”

“It’ll be okay, son. I promise. Have I ever lied to you?” Mummy asked.

“N . . . no.”

She hugged him again. “I know you’re in pain and you feel lost. But while you’re going through all of this, we’ll hold you up. We won’t let you fall.”

He sobbed into her shoulder. “I’m cold, Mummy. “I’m so cold.” She helped him lay down and covered him up. “There’s another blanket in the wardrobe.”

Daddy got up and got it, pulling it over him.

“Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to sit very long. The stitches . . .”

Mummy felt his head, her face concerned. “You aren’t fevered.”

“I’m just a little cold. I’ll be okay. The doctor will take my temperature.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Do you want anything?”

“No. I’m fine. Could I have a drink of water, though?”

“Of course. I’ll get it,” Daddy said. He went out to the kitchen and returned a moment later. He started to hand the glass and then sat down, holding it out instead to Mummy. He helped Sherlock sit up a bit and Mummy held the glass to his mouth.

“I’m so tired all of a sudden.”

“It’s been a very exciting day for you. And you aren’t used to it. Why don’t you have a nap? Then you’ll feel good enough maybe to lie on the sofa with us later,” Mummy said. “I can cook you something good for dinner. What would you like?”

“I . . . I can’t have solid foods, Mummy. Not for a few weeks.” Sherlock could feel his face heating up.

“Oh . . . yes. I’m sorry.”

“The doctor has some nutrient drinks. And we bought ice cream.”

She smiled. “Ah, you and your sweet tooth. We’ll let you alone to get some sleep.” She bent over and kissed his cheek as Daddy squeezed his shoulder.

Sherlock laid there, exhaustion overpowering him. He closed his eyes. It had felt good to come clean to his parents. As he fell into sleep, he felt warm and safe.

Sherlock woke a few hours later. Dr. Cooper was there, and after Sherlock had had another cup of tea, they had their session.

“I realized after you left the hospital that I’d never given you John’s letter.” He handed Sherlock the letter.

 

Sherlock:

I wasn’t sure what to say in this letter. I have a million things going through my head, a million feelings. I miss you every minute of every day. I worry about you every minute of every day. I think about our relationship. I think how different my life would have been if Mike hadn’t taken me into that lab. You saved my life. Do you know that? You gave me back my life. You made me crawl out of the PTSD and want to live a new life.

And yes, sometimes, you could be an arse, but so was I. We laughed and fought and chased criminals. We ate Chinese food and watched crap telly and drank endless cups of tea.

You quickly became such an integral part of my life that it seemed that you had always been part of it. I couldn’t imagine life without you in it. And then . . . well, we know what happened.

I felt like half of me was gone when I thought you were dead. It was like how I felt when you first met me. And then I met Mary.

And I know I shouldn’t talk to you about her. 

And now the elephant in the room (and no, not that case). You have absolutely no idea how honoured I felt that you love me. That I’m the only one you’ve ever loved. I feel so guilty though. You’ve given your heart to me. And, believe me, it’s the most precious gift you have to give. And you haven’t even asked me to love you back. And I wish I could give you what you want. I do love you, Sherlock. You’re a part of me. I don’t want to live without you in my life. You’re my best friend, but it’s so much more than that. We’re partners in nearly every sense of the word. 

I truly enjoy lying with you in bed, holding you in my arms. It makes me feel like I’m at home. And I have to admit that 221B will always feel like home, more than the flat I live in now. 

I need to have you in my life, Sherlock. I need to see you. I need to know that you’re alright. I need to hear your voice.

You’ve done nothing but protect me. The jump from St. Bart’s, bringing yourself back from the dead when Mary shot you, and the whole Magnusson thing: you did all of it to protect me. You were going off to die before Moriarty’s message. All for me. All because you love me.

And I feel like all I’ve done is hurt you. Losing my temper all the time. I remember the look on your face when I told that berk Sebastian that I was your colleague, rather than a friend as you’d said. And when you came back . . . I should have hugged you, but I was just so angry. And you, despite that, rushed into that fire to save me. You helped with the wedding and stood by my side. That must have hurt too. I wish I’d known. Molly told me how sad you looked when you left the wedding early. I stayed away a whole month. I never contacted you. How abandoned you must have felt. I can never forgive myself for that. If I didn’t have Mary in my life, she’d never have shot you, and you wouldn’t have had to kill Magnusson. 

I don’t know . . . it feels sometimes like I’ve been inadvertently hurting you since the day we met, and all you’ve ever wanted was to love me and for me to love you. 

Believe me, please. I do love you so. I’ll always love you.

Come home, Sherlock. Back to 221B. Back to us, to me. Please come out of the hospital. There’s no one there to hold you when you need it. There’s no one there who loves you.

I know it’ll be difficult juggling a job, a wife and two kids, and coming by every day. But I will make it work. I can’t lose you again. I won’t betray the love you have for me or the love I have for you.

Please come home, Sherlock.

John

 

Sherlock read the letter again, blinking the tears out of his eyes. John said he loved him. John loved him in almost every way. Hope rose in him. Maybe, maybe they could have a relationship. They just wouldn’t have sex. It was okay if John just held him. Sherlock loved that. And sometimes John would hold his hand or kiss the top of his head. That could be enough. 

Dr. Cooper looked at him. “Are you alright?”

“Is John still here?”

“No. Mycroft said he was coming back for dinner.”

“Could you find my mobile? I need to talk to him.” 

Dr. Cooper handed him his mobile. “I’ll give you some privacy.” He stood up and punched in the number that Sherlock gave him. Then he left the room.

“Hello?”

“John, it’s Sherlock.”

“Hi. You woke up. How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Dr. Cooper’s here. He . . . he gave me your letter. I never got a chance to read it in the hospital.”

“I wondered about that. You hadn’t mentioned it. I know it was kind of rambling.”

“It was beautiful, John. I cried when I read it. I . . . it was all true, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was true. Every word.”

“Then . . . then you . . . you love me?”

“Of course I do, Sherlock. I’ve always loved you and I always will.”

“E . . . except for the s . . . sex.”

“Um . . . yes. I guess so. I am a married man, after all.”

Sherlock sniffed. He felt a huge smile grow on his face.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“I’m so happy, John. You love me. You love me. I couldn’t be happier if I wanted to be.”

“But . . . but we can’t be together like you wanted.”

“It doesn’t matter. As long as I know you love me, I’m the happiest man in the world. You love me in all the ways that matter.”

John could feel the tears dripping down his face. “But I’ve hurt you so much over the years. You’ve given up everything for me. And I’ve just let you down.”

“You’re my John. You’re the person who taught me that I was worth something. I think you’re the only one. If all I have is occasional talks on the mobile and visits, that’s all I need because, in my heart, in my mind and soul, I know that you love me. I can live off of that the rest of my life.”

“I . . . I’ll be right there.”

“I can’t wait to see you.” He turned off the mobile and called Dr. Cooper in. “He’s coming to see me. My John. My John loves me.” Sherlock was smiling widely.

Dr. Cooper couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m so happy for you. You see? You have family and friends and someone who loves you.”

“It’s the most important thing. I can handle the pain, the memories, the inability to do things for myself, now that I know he loves me.”

“There’s still a lot to work through.”

“I know. I know. I still have nightmares. I’m still afraid. But my brother has . . . someone working on it. They’re very close to finding the person behind it.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Scared about who it is. About why they did it. About why they’ve continued torturing me. But I want it to be over. He made me feel unsafe here. And now I don’t know. I made so many enemies doing work for the police. Because of this person, they all know that I’m unable to protect myself. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel completely safe the rest of my life. I don’t want to leave here. I’m afraid. Not only of this but also because I don’t want anyone making fun of me. There are still people out there who think I got what I deserved. I know it shouldn’t matter, but I’ve always been overly sensitive about what other people think about me, ever since my brother left and I started school.”

“People who’ve been bullied tend to think that way. But you should be more concerned about how you feel about yourself.”

“I don’t like myself, you know that.”

“I know your self-esteem is slowly growing, and we can work on it more. You’ve done so much good. You’ve put away murderers, thieves, rapists. You’ve saved so many lives. You’ve become a very important part of your friends’ lives. And now the man you love has told you he loves you.”

“If only I could get past those five days and the attack in the hospital — the pain, the humiliation. It’s always there at the back of my mind. I can’t get rid of it. And when my mind wanders or when I’m asleep, I can’t control it.”

“You’ve every right to be upset by them. You went through two exceptionally traumatic events that have left you with permanent physical and mental injuries. But there’s nothing to be done about the injuries. You’ve come to accept, in part, that your life has limitations now. And it’s natural to feel fear and resentment. But you have to accept it fully. You have to move on with your life.”

“I’ll try. But I feel so absolutely useless now.”

“There are others who would say that you’re wrong.”

“Including me,” they heard from the door.

Sherlock looked over and smiled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.”

Dr. Cooper smiled. “It’s alright. I think you’re exactly what he needs right now. I’ll come by tomorrow for our session.” Dr. Cooper got up and left the room. 

John stared into Sherlock’s eyes. He took off his coat and shoes, laying beside Sherlock and pulling him into his arms. “It feels so good to be here with you and to know that you’re safe.”

“I love you, John.”

“I love you, too. I’ve loved women before. I love Mary, though not as much as I did, not since she shot you. It feels like my heart is split in two and, to be completely and utterly honest, I love you more than I love her.”

“I never thought . . . I never dreamed.”

“I didn’t either. Not until I sat down to write that letter. This feels so right — laying here with you in my arms.”

“If I could spend the rest of my life in your arms, I could die a happy man.” Sherlock breathed in John’s scent. He felt so happy. So warm and so at home.

John gently kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “I really don’t like the buzzed look on you.”

“I know. I hate it too. But it’ll be awhile before it grows out. It seemed a good idea at the time. Though I’ll admit I wasn’t quite in my right mind at the time.”

“Woo hoo, can I come in?” They looked up and saw Mrs. Hudson at the door.

“Sure. Come on in.”

“I’ll be so happy having you here to watch telly and drink tea and play games.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m looking forward to that. I can lay on the sofa and watch. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit for a long time until after the stitches heal.”

“I’m looking forward to making dinner for you and treats. You’re too thin.”

“It’ll be a few weeks before he can have solid food,” John said.

“Then I’ll work on making milkshakes.”

“That sounds good.”

Mrs. Hudson beamed. 

“Oh, I forgot to mention, I invited Molly to dinner. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Mycroft is coming too. I can set up some chairs in here so you can be part of it.”

Sherlock smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Mrs. Hudson sat down on the end of the bed. “In the meantime, would you like another cup of tea?”

“I’d love one,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson hurried off to make the tea. When she came back, a smiling Sherlock looked up at her. “There’s something you should know, Mrs. Hudson. John told me he loves me. In all the ways that count anyway. I’m so happy.”

Mrs. Hudson let out a little squeak. “Oh, my boys. I wondered how long it would take.”

“I’m still in love with my wife. I’m still married and play on staying married. But I love Sherlock too. Not the same way I love Mary, but Sherlock’s right. In all the ways that are most important.”

“Still. I’m so happy for both of you.” She set the tray down and bent to kiss both of them on the forehead.

They sat and had tea and talked for a long time before Mrs. Hudson went out to start dinner. Dr. Roberts came in.

“I need to check your stitches.”

Sherlock’s face went pale.

“It’s alright,” John said as he sat up and held Sherlock’s hand. “I’m here.”

Sherlock mutely nodded.

Dr. Roberts shut the door and he and John pulled the blankets off. Sherlock was dressed in a nightgown — one heavier than the one in the hospital. Dr. Roberts pulled off the adult nappy. He motioned for Sam and John to hold Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock was shaking and the occasional whimper escaped his lips. John held his leg with one hand and his hand with the other. 

“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s alright. I’m here. Look at me. Look into my eyes.”

Sherlock looked at John and saw the love there. He latched on to it for dear life. He heard the doctor pull on a pair of latex gloves. He felt his fingers probing him. He shook harder and swallowed.

“Help me, John,” he whispered.

“It’s alright. I know it’s not easy. It’ll be over soon.”

Sherlock felt the fingers enter him and he yelped, tears coming to his eyes as he flashed back to the warehouse. “Don’t! Please, don’t! Please don’t hurt me anymore!”

“Sherlock, it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re here. You’re with me. You’re with John. You aren’t in the warehouse or the hospital. It’s alright.”

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s your John. I’m here.”

“My John. My John,” Sherlock whispered as he winced.

“Are you almost done?” John asked.

“Nearly,” the doctor pulled his fingers out and took off the gloves. Sam put a fresh nappy on Sherlock. John covered Sherlock back up.

“The stitches feel fine. There’s more redness than I like and swelling. Sam, would you take his temperature?”

Sam did. “37.5.”

“Definitely a fever. I’m afraid there’s an infection. We’ll up the antibiotics. That should nip it in the bud.” He injected meds into Sherlock’s IV.

As Sam and Dr. Roberts left, John laid back down beside Sherlock. Sherlock had finally stopped shaking. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I wish you didn’t have to go through that. I know people have only touched you there to hurt you but Dr. Roberts really isn’t. The same thing happened before, but you were unconscious. But I’ll be here. I won’t let you be alone for something like this.”

“I . . . I know I shouldn’t be such a baby about it. I know he isn’t hurting me but whenever someone touches me there, I have a flashback. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to have anyone touch me there.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do. I don’t know how to handle it sometimes. What they did to me, I mean. I’ve been raped twenty five times. I . . . I’m a victim, John. I never wanted to be. I’ll never feel completely safe again.”

“You’re safe here,” John said as he hugged Sherlock tighter. “You’re always safe with me. I’ll never let anything happens to you. Never again.”

“I only feel safe in your arms.”

“That makes me so happy. I want to be here for you. I want you to have some peace. And if I can give it to you, I will.”

Sherlock snuggled his face into John’s chest. “I’ll take whatever time you can give me. Whatever stolen minutes and seconds. I know you have to work. I know that you have to be with your family. You don’t have to come by every day. I can stand it just as long as I know you love me.”

“Don’t ever doubt it.”

They laid there for awhile and heard Mycroft arrive.

“Hello, Little Brother. John,” Mycroft said as he came in. “I’ve had an update. Our friend has found the original account from which Moriarty’s money was taken. Whoever took it was really good. They’ve broken it up into dozens of accounts in dozens of names or fake company names. He’s found the accounts from which the money was transferred to the kidnappers, the lawyers, and Mr. Brook. He’s still working on trying to figure out who it was.”

“That’s a lot of work to get done in a few hours.”

“Well, John, he is a genius after all,” Sherlock said.

“It won’t be long now. We still have the fate of Mr. Brook to consider. I haven’t had time to promise him but he knows it’s coming. He and the two . . . individuals from the hospital.”

Sherlock looked a bit thoughtful.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing. I’ll just be glad when this is over. When we know why. When I know what I did to make someone hate me so much to do this to me.”

“There’s something wrong with them, Sherlock. There’s nothing you could have done,” John said.

“But someone hates me that much, John. They hate me enough to spend tens of millions of pounds, to free those men, pay off lawyers, arrange to have my picture and that video released. How could someone hate me so much?”

“It’s not as much as you’re loved,” John said.

“No indeed,” Mycroft agreed. He sat down next to Sherlock and reached out for his hand. 

“John. Mycroft,” Mrs. Hudson called. “Could you help me move some chairs into the bedroom? I’ve folding tables in my flat that everyone can eat from.”

“Just coming,” Mycroft said as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand again. He and John quickly set up enough tables and chairs for all of them. Dr. Roberts and Sam were going to eat at the kitchen table.

Molly came up in the lift, bringing a bottle of wine. “It’s alcohol free so Sherlock can have some. I thought he might want to celebrate.”

As they sat and talked and ate, Sherlock felt like he was truly home. John propped him up on some pillows and helped him with his thick nutritional shake, his wine, and then, for dessert, a thick strawberry milkshake that had him licking his lips.

The evening went by quickly. And John called Mary, asking her to come and bring Rosie. They arrived soon after, as did Greg. The family feel expanded. The bottle of wine was soon gone and Mycroft sent his men out for more.

Everyone was happy and by the time ten o’clock came around, Sherlock’s eyes were drooping as Rosie crawled up on the bed and hugged him tight.

“Night, Uncle Sherlock.”

“Night, Rosie.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Mary said, bending over to kiss his cheek.

“Night, Mary.”

Everyone said their goodbyes. Mycroft had agreed to spend the night and lay down beside Sherlock.

Brad took Sherlock to get him ready for bed. Sherlock took his meds and fell asleep quickly. His dreams were dark and murky and made him feel uncomfortable, though they weren’t enough to make him wake up.

He woke when the lift started at 7 a.m., when Brad left and Sam arrived.

Sam came in to check on him and brought him some water and his medication. 

Sherlock felt uneasy, like something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. Mrs. Hudson came up in the lift with tea, so he knew she was safe. Mycroft stirred then got up and started to get ready for work.

When Mycroft was in the shower, Sherlock called out to Mrs. Hudson. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Can you ring Greg, Molly, Mummy and Daddy, and John and Mary for me? I need to know they’re okay. I just have a really bad feeling that something’s wrong with someone I care about.”

Mrs. Hudson dialled the numbers for all of them and Sherlock briefly talked with each. They all said they were fine.

Feeling relieved, Sam gave Sherlock a bath and changed the bed before putting him back in bed and dressing him. He gave Sherlock his nutritional drink.

When he finished, Dr. Roberts checked him over and took his temperature before giving him his pain shot. 

Mycroft said goodbye and left for work. Sam carried Sherlock out to lie on the sofa while he and Mrs. Hudson settled in to watch morning telly and talk.

 

Mycroft was uneasy when he found out about Sherlock’s bad feeling. Sometimes it seemed his little brother could sense things unlike anyone else.

He entered his office to find Ford still there and hard at work. He looked at his brother. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“It took all night. I’ve triple checked. There’s no question.”

“Thank you, Ford. I really appreciate all that you’ve done. And I promise you that I’ll get you in to see Sherlock and Mummy and Daddy. It’ll be as soon as possible. Sherlock will need all of us. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep. I’ll arrange for a group visit in the next few days.”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I would do anything for Sherlock. At least we’ll know he’s safe.”

“Yes. At least that. I’m sending my men to pick them up.”

“You’re sure there won’t be a fight?”

“Not in public. I should go.”

“Of course.” Ford gathered up his equipment.

“I’ll have one of my men drive you home. Thank you, Little Brother.”

“Thank you for letting me help.”

Mycroft smiled tightly at his brother. On the car ride, he leaned wearily against the handle of his umbrella. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Sir?” his driver said. “The target’s been acquired. No problems. Taking to the holding facility.”

“Good. Tell them to restrain the prisoner. I’ll be there soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

They drove in silence for ten minutes until they pulled up outside their destination.

Mycroft got out of the car and straightened his shoulders before he entered the building.

 

John was just saying goodbye to his latest patient when he saw Mycroft striding towards him.

“What’s wrong? Is Sherlock okay?” he asked.

“We need to talk.”

John brought him into his office and shut the door.

“What is it?”

“Ford’s found the person behind all of this.”

John smiled. “That’s wonderful. Are they in custody?”

“Yes.”

“Then Sherlock’s safe. Oh, thank God.” He looked up and saw a look on Mycroft’s face that he couldn’t quite place.

“John, I’m afraid the news is not all good. Please sit down.”

“What is it?”

“Ford traced the person through back channels, false names, numbered accounts, business fronts . . . but he finally found the real owner at 6:30 this morning. The person who controls the bank accounts owns a corporation called the All Gloucester Rail Association.”

“That’s a weird name. Who is it?”

“Think of it, John. All Gloucester Rail Association.”

“Never heard of it.”

“The initials?”

“A.G.R.A. . . . Oh God.” Awareness dawned on his face. He turned pale and bent over. “She . . . she couldn’t. She couldn’t do that. How . . . how . . .?” He looked up at Mycroft with tears in his eyes.

“It appears that she was heavily involved in Moriarty’s organization — at least enough to know about his accounts.”

“D . . . do you think she was part of his plan to tear Sherlock’s heart out all along?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to question her now.”

“Did she come quietly?”

“Yes. We waited until after she dropped Rosie off at school. She went shopping. We took her outside the store. She didn’t resist. Your daughter’s being watched. We’ll make sure she’s picked up after school. We’ve taken your wife to the detention centre.”

“Not in those cells with those men.”

“No. She’s restrained in the hospital ward. Your child is an innocent, John, despite what his or her mother did. She’ll be kept safe and unharmed until your child is born. Then she’s mine, John. She’s mine to punish for destroying my brother. I know she’s your wife . . .”

“Not anymore. If she did this, she’s not my wife anymore. I need to be there.”

“Then let’s go.”

John steeled himself as he took off his lab coat and pulled on his jacket. He stopped at the front and told the nurse there’d been a family emergency.

John and Mycroft drove in silence to the holding facility. John’s stomach was tied in knots. His brain was whirling. His heart was broken. Mary . . . his Mary. She’d killed Sherlock once and now she’d done worse. She’d destroyed him. Torn out his heart and soul, ruined his mind and body. Sherlock had got him to forgive her, and they’d built a life together. They had children. But it was all a lie.

When they arrived, Mycroft led him to the second level down. They walked into what looked like an extremely well-stocked infirmary. In the far corner, Mary sat in a bed, her hands restrained. She appeared calm.

“Ah, Mrs. Watson. So lovely to see you again.” John recognized the icy steel of Mycroft’s seemingly friendly tone.

“So you finally figured it out? I must have gotten sloppy.” She looked unconcerned. “What was it?”

“All Gloucester Rail Association,” Mycroft said.

She nodded. “Should have known. I’m impressed. You must have had a genius-level computer expert get through all the bells and whistles I had set up to keep my identity secret. Kudos to you.”

“You worked for the government. How the hell did you get so close to Moriarty?”

“I worked hard for the government. I put my life on the line for Queen and Country on every mission, and I never failed to perform my missions to the top of my ability. But I wanted some fun. And Jim Moriarty, though a complete homicidal maniac, was nothing if not fun and an absolute tiger in the bedroom.”

John swallowed hard and turned a bit green.

“We got along like gangbusters. I did some work for him, some of it highly illegal, just for the fun. I got close to him, and he trusted me. Even told me some of his secrets.

“We had a fantastic time, until he heard about Sherlock. Then he became absolutely obsessed. I tried to get him interested in something else, but he was adamant that he was going to have Sherlock or destroy him. And he did want him. Called out Sherlock’s name in bed with me once. Talk about a hit to a girl’s self-esteem. And then Jim was gone. His obsession killed him. So I took up the cause to destroy Sherlock in Jim’s name. And I was so close, if it weren’t for you and your meddling.”

“So you admit you’re behind Sherlock’s kidnapping?” John asked, incredulous.

“Of course I am. Did you honestly think I would put up with Sherlock loving you? Eventually you were going to realize you loved him. I didn’t fight so hard for you to lose you to him. But just killing him wouldn’t work.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“Oh, John. Don’t be so naïve. It nearly killed you when you thought he was dead before. And I was trying to make sure he got killed on his two years away. Who do you think tipped off the Serbians about him?”

Mycroft looked shocked. “You bitch,” he whispered.

“Given a few more days, he’d have died in Serbia. I didn’t count on you coming for him. I’ve had his life in my hands so many times. It was me at the pool, you know. I was the one with the gun pointed at Sherlock’s forehead. Jim would have killed me if I’d killed him, but it was tempting. I got close to you after Jim died because I planned to kill you in front of Sherlock if he came back. But then, I fell in love with you. The big, bad assassin fell in love with the broken, adrenaline junkie.

“I did mean to kill him in Magnusson’s office. I knew he’d die, but he clawed his way back because he loves you. So he lived, and he kept going back to you. And you kept going back to him. And I was damned if I was going to let him win. He took Jim away from me. I wasn’t about to let him have you, too. And the brilliance of it was that, with him a brain-damaged cripple, he’s of no use to you. He can’t take you to crime scenes. I know you’d feel sorry for him for awhile, but you’d leave him eventually. And I was absolutely sure you’d leave him when he checked himself into the mental institution.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. She was mad, completely mad.

“I had to do it, John. Don’t you see? He would have broken us up. We have a family now. We can go anywhere we want. I have enough money for us to live the rest of our lives on. You and me and Rosie and the baby. You don’t need Sherlock. You need me.”

“Do you honestly think I would stay with you?” John screamed. “You almost destroyed him! You broke his mind and his body! You aren’t my fucking wife! You never, ever were!”

“Do you think I’ll let you go?” Mycroft asked, his voice dark and his face thunderous. “After what you did to my brother? As soon as you give birth, you are mine, Mrs. Watson. Mine to punish.”

Mary actually looked frightened. “John, you can’t let him talk to me like that. I’m your wife. I’m the mother of your children. You need me. They need me.”

“Not anymore.” John took his wedding ring off and dropped it on the floor. “You were the biggest mistake I ever made. You will never, ever see our children again. And you’ll never see me again.” He turned to Mycroft. “Please keep me informed on the health of my child. After that do whatever the hell you want to do with her.” He turned his back on her and walked out the door.

“John! Come back! Come back! You don’t need him! You need me!”

“Shall I sedate her?” the doctor asked.

“Do whatever you have to to keep her from harming the child,” Mycroft ordered.

Mycroft joined a shaken John in the corridor.

“S . . . she admitted it. She actually admitted it. She’s hated Sherlock this whole time. But for her to do this to him. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. It’s all my fault. Sherlock is like this because of me, because of my wife. Oh . . . oh God, Mycroft . . . how can I ever make this up to him?”

“It’s not your fault. It’s hers. She fooled Sherlock and me. Just . . . just love him. That’s all he needs. He needs your support and your love. And I believe, I very much believe that you need his. We had best be off. Sherlock knew something was wrong this morning. We need to talk to him. We need to tell him, let him know he’s safe.”

John nodded his head as they walked towards the lift.

 

Sherlock was still a bit unsettled, but enjoyed Mrs. Hudson’s company immensely. He heard the lift engage and a few minutes later Mycroft and John came in.

“Oh, hello,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Could we talk to Sherlock alone?” Mycroft asked.

Mrs. Hudson looked a bit troubled. “Of course. I’ll be down in my flat if you need anything.”

John moved over and turned off the television.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

John sat down on one side of Sherlock and Mycroft on the other.

“Ford was able to trace the person who did this to you,” Mycroft said.

“Are they in custody?”

“Yes. You’re safe. They can’t ever hurt you again. Never,” John said. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smiled, feeling better, until he saw John’s face. “What is it, John?”

John looked down at the bed.

“What is it? It’s good news. You’re scaring me, John. Please look at me.” Sherlock reached up and touched John’s face.

John sobbed once. “I . . . it’s all my fault. This is all my fault, Sherlock. The torture, the rapes, the brain damage. This is because of me.”

“What do you mean? How could this be your fault?”

“I . . . It was Mary, Sherlock. She worked for Moriarty and cleaned out one of his accounts when he died. She was going to kill me in front of you when you came back from your mission, but she fell in love with me. She was the one who told the Serbians about you. She . . . she knew that I loved you and didn’t want me to go with you. She thought doing this to you would destroy you. Like Moriarty wanted. She thought I’d get bored and leave you.

“I . . . I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. If it wasn’t for me . . .”

“No, John. No. It’s not your fault. Never. I . . . I can’t believe she hated me that much.”

“She didn’t even pretend to be sorry. She blamed you for Moriarty’s death. Apparently they were lovers. She said that you had taken Jim away from her and she wasn’t going to let you take me too,” John said, tears dripping from his eyes.

Sherlock struggled to sit up and took John into his arms. Both of them cried on the other’s shoulders.

“I can never make this up to you. Never.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s hers. It’s hers.”

They held each other for a long time before Sherlock winced. “I need to lay down, John.”

John carefully laid him down. He couldn’t bear to look into Sherlock’s eyes, knowing he was the cause of all of Sherlock’s pain.

“John, look at me,” Sherlock said.

John’s eyes flicked up to Sherlock’s face and back.

“No. Look at me.”

John’s tear-filled eyes met Sherlock’s.

“Oh, John. My John. This isn’t your fault. It isn’t. I would never, ever blame you.” 

“I . . . I know you wouldn’t. But it is. The guilt is eating me alive. If I hadn’t fallen in love with her, how much pain would you have avoided? The shooting, Magnusson, the wedding, going back to drugs, and all of this. Magnusson was right. I’m your pressure point. If it wasn’t for me . . .”

“Then I’d never have known what love felt like. I’d never had had a best friend. I would never have had someone to live for, to die for.”

“I . . . I don’t deserve your love.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “You have my love always and forever. I know it was why she did all of this to me. If I’d never felt it, maybe I’d have been spared all of this, but it’s so important, such a big part of my life, I wouldn’t ever wish that you weren’t with me. Never.”

“Really? How . . . how can you forgive me for this?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I’m so s . . .” John started to say.

Sherlock held a finger up to John’s lips. “Isn’t there an awful ’70s movie that said love means never having to say you’re sorry?”

“There was.”

“It got that right anyway. I won’t say I’m not upset, John. I am. I can’t believe someone that I cared about, someone I sacrificed for, someone I forgave could do this to me. To know that my love for you caused her to hate me that much. Maybe . . . maybe if I’d never come back, you’d have been happy.”

“Don’t say that. There was always something missing, a big part of me missing, when you were gone. Mary filled a bit of it, but only a bit. I think she knew that I’d never love her the way I loved you. I couldn’t see it. For so long, I couldn’t accept it. I think I started to when you gave your best man speech, when you told me that you loved me.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I should leave. You two deserve your privacy.”

“Wait, My,” Sherlock said. “What are you going to go with Mary?”

“Nothing until after the baby’s born.”

“She’ll have the best of care until then?”

“Of course.”

“Alright.”

“Sherlock, don’t worry. The baby will be fine,” Mycroft said.

“And after the baby’s born?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked at John. He reached out and touched John’s hand. “I’m sorry, John, but there are some things that just can’t be forgiven. She destroyed me. I . . . you can’t ask me to forgive that.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” John said. “I want her to pay for what she did to you. I want her to pay and pay.” 

“I’m sorry, John. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed the two of you back together . . .”

“You couldn’t have known. You were doing that out of love. You wanted me to be happy, and you thought Mary was the one I loved most. But Sherlock, for once you were wrong. I didn’t realize then, but I love you more than I’ve ever loved Mary. That night at 221B when you were bleeding out before my eyes, you told me that I picked her because she was an assassin, because she was dangerous. But she was just a poor substitute for you. I thought I loved her because she helped me get over you. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time. She knew. She seemed to know all along about how I felt about you. And she must have been planning this all along, ever since you came back.

“Oh, Sherlock. I wish I hadn’t been so blind. I wish I could have admitted to myself how much you meant to me. I should have left her when you came back. When you saved me from the fire. You were still hurt, still in pain, and you didn’t hesitate to run into the fire to save me. I should have left her when she shot you.”

“If I hadn’t pushed you back to her . . .”

“This isn’t your fault, Sherlock. Not at all.”

“Just as it isn’t yours.”

“Your wife, I’m afraid, may be as mad as Moriarty. Think about it. What was done to Sherlock, isn’t it something Moriarty would have done? He said he was going to burn the heart out of you. Wouldn’t this be a plan he would have come up with to do just that? Maybe it was his plan for you,” Mycroft said.

John looked shocked. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. She told us,” he said, turning to Sherlock, “that she was the sniper at the pool that was pointing right at your forehead. It’s entirely possible she could have been in on all of his plans.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. “It was bad enough to have Moriarty after me. She completely slipped under my radar. I overlooked what I should have seen because I thought she made you happy.”

“She fooled me too, Brother Mine.”

“Well, yes. There is that. To be hated that much though. I know there are people who hate me enough to kill me, but this . . . this is worse. She knew this would destroy me. This was much crueler then if I’d actually died. Yet, she looked at me like she felt so sorry that it had happened to me. And the letter she wrote to me.

“I . . . I really don’t know how to reconcile this in my head. Someone I trusted you with, someone I cared about, someone I sacrificed for, and she did this to me. I . . . I can’t understand John, My — how can I understand this? It doesn’t make any sense. Please,” he said, as he sobbed. “Please tell me why.”

John reached out to him again, pulling him into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I don’t know why she somehow thought I’d get bored with you. She knew if she killed you, I’d never survive it — not a second time. But she thought I’d leave you with you like this. But she’s wrong. Never. I’ll never ever leave you.”

“You have all of us, Little Brother. John, me, Ford, Mummy, Daddy, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg. We’re all here for you. We will never leave you. You will always have us with you.”

“You swear?” Sherlock asked, his voice small and full of pain as he looked at Mycroft.

“I swear on my life. No one will leave. Not one of us. And we won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

Sherlock buried his face in John’s shoulder and let the tears and the sobs come. He felt as if his whole world was upside down. How could she have done that to him? How had he missed what was clearly naked hatred towards him?

He felt John’s arms around him and heard him whispering in his ear to let it out. He felt Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder and heard him telling him that he was safe now. As he cried himself to towards sleep, his memory flashed back to the warehouse, the hospital, the box of fingers, the video, the picture.

When he couldn’t cry anymore, when exhaustion overpowered him, he felt John lay him down. He whispered to Mycroft who got up and returned a few minutes later with a warm flannel. John gently wiped the tears from Sherlock’s face as he drifted off.

 

John and Mycroft left Sherlock to sleep and went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Molly and Greg were there. Mycroft had asked them to meet them at 221B. He would go to visit his parents later.

“Is Sherlock alright?” Molly asked. “We heard him crying.”

“He’s sleeping right now,” John said.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked.

“We’ve found the person behind all of this. They are in custody and pose no danger to Sherlock anymore,” Mycroft said.

“Oh, thank Heavens,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Who is it?” Greg asked. “Sherlock wouldn’t be that upset over a stranger. Is it someone he knows?”

John looked down at the floor and took a deep shuddering breath. “It . . . it was Mary.”

All of them gasped.

“Why?” Molly asked, bursting into tears, as did Mrs. Hudson. “Why would she do it?”

“She was jealous. She wanted to punish Sherlock because he loves me. She thought if she destroyed Sherlock, I’d leave him. She worked with Moriarty. She stole a bunch of his money when he died and used it to hire the criminals who kidnapped him. And she was the one who shot Sherlock.”

Greg didn’t look surprised but the rest did.

“Why didn’t you arrest her?” an angry Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Sherlock convinced us she didn’t mean to hurt him badly. He wanted me to forgive her because he wanted me to be happy. And he thought she was the only one who could make me happy.”

“He . . . he sacrificed all of that for you?” Molly asked. “He loves you more than anyone in the world, and he let her go because he thought she made you happy?”

John turned pale. “I . . . I can never make this up to him.”

Mycroft placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “You know he doesn’t blame you. He’ll never blame you.”

“Maybe he should,” Molly said as she wiped her eyes. “He’s never asked you for anything, John Watson. The only thing he’s ever wanted was for you to love him. And you left him for Mary. You knew she shot and killed him and you went back to her. He murdered to keep the two of you safe. And that “woman” did this to him because she was jealous? How dare you even call yourself his friend? How much has he suffered since you came into his life, John? How much will he continue to suffer? How long before you find some other woman to parade in front of him? Make him be best man at your next wedding? You didn’t see his face when he left your reception — he was emotionally shattered. You don’t deserve his love.”

“I . . . I know. I know I don’t deserve it. I won’t hurt him every again.”

“You say that, John. You always say that but then you get angry at him and hurt him. You’ve said the most hurtful things to him,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“I know that you’re all angry with Mary. But John is the man that Sherlock loves. He’d be very upset if he knew you were talking to him like this,” Mycroft said. “I have every reason to be upset by him. But Sherlock loves him more than anyone in the world. He is the most important thing in the world to him. This isn’t John’s fault. This is Mary’s fault. She was so jealous of Sherlock that she set out to destroy him. We’ve theorized that it could even have been one of Moriarty’s plans to burn out Sherlock’s heart.”

John sat down. He hung his head and took a deep shuddering breath. He’d done this to Sherlock. No matter what Mycroft said, Mycroft had every reason to despise John, but he didn’t. Sherlock especially had the right to hate him. But he didn’t. Sherlock had looked at him with love in his eyes. If it had been him, he’d have hit Sherlock. He’d have cursed him and screamed. He’d have sworn he’d never see him again. But Sherlock . . . Sherlock would never do that.

For all that people called him a freak, inhuman, and uncaring, Sherlock was the most human person John had ever known. And Sherlock loved him, unquestionably and undoubtedly.

John knew he didn’t deserve it. Sherlock was the best man he’d ever known. And because of him, Sherlock was broken: body, mind, head, and soul. They could say he wasn’t, but he’d never believe it. The guilt was eating him up. But he had to stay. Sherlock needed him.

“John, are you alright?” Mrs. Hudson asked, her hand on his shoulder.

He tried to stop, but he couldn’t. The sobs started. 

“Oh John. It’ll be alright. I know it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have said so.”

He wrapped his arms around her back and rested his forehead against her stomach. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he continued to cry. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want him to get hurt. I never wanted him to be hurt.”

“I know, dear. I know,” Mrs. Hudson said soothingly.

“I loved her. I loved her and she did this to him. I . . .”

“Oh, John. Be there for him. That’s all he wants. That’s what he needs. He’s really going to need you now.”

He sniffed and let go of her. “I know.” He wiped his face. “What am I going to do? How am I going to explain to Rosie that she’ll never see her mum again? How will I explain about the baby? How can I go back to that house?”

Mrs. Hudson sat down beside John and reached out to take John’s hand. “I have an idea. You and Rosie could move back to 221B. Rosie and the baby can take your old room. Sherlock likes you to sleep in his bed anyway. I can be with Sherlock when you’re at work and look after Rosie when she comes home from school.”

“I . . . I’ll have to ask, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure my brother will agree,” Mycroft said. “I can handle cleaning out your house and moving everyone. In the meantime, I’ll have a hotel readied for you to stay in until everything’s done.”

Molly and Greg walked over.

“I’m sorry, John. I know you’d never wish Sherlock harm,” Molly said.

“It’s alright. I understand why you’re angry.”

“It must be hard being in love with someone who hurts you. My wife just had affairs. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But we’re all here for you and Sherlock,” Greg said.

“I can’t thank you enough. I can’t bear this. I can’t bear to even think of her.”

He looked towards the ceiling. “And what she did to him. It was bad enough knowing it was done to him, but by one of us. Someone who he cared about. Someone who said she cared about him.”

“She must be a psychopath, John. Like Moriarty,” Molly said.

“And I never suspected. Well, when she shot Sherlock, but Sherlock convinced me to forgive her.” 

“And she did this despite that,” Greg said. “Blimey, she is crazy.”

“I’m so . . . I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to think. I’m so exhausted.”

“Go lay down with Sherlock,” Mycroft said.

“Rosie has to be picked up. I have to try and think of how to explain this to her.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of picking her up,” Mycroft said. “Go be with Sherlock.”

John nodded and stood up. “I . . . I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re here.”

“Get some rest,” Greg said.

John went in Sherlock’s room and closed the door. Sherlock was breathing softly.

John took off his coat and shoes and got under the covers. Sherlock moved slightly then reached out. John gathered him into his arms.

Sherlock sighed contentedly in his sleep. John closed his eyes and was almost instantly asleep.

 

Mycroft looked at all of them. “John’s going to need support. He’s close to a breakdown. And Sherlock. He’s gone through so much. If this doesn’t push him over, I’d be surprised. I’m going to call Dr. Cooper and ask him to be here when Sherlock wakes up. I’ll be depending on all of you to help.”

They all nodded, solemnly.

“I’m going to arrange for John to have a leave of absence at work.”

“They may never get over this, either of them,” Mrs. Hudson said, with tears in her eyes.

“They may not. But I think we need to plan to help them both. John has been there for Sherlock but now Sherlock needs him even more. And John is guilt ridden. He’s lost his wife for all intents and purposes and has a daughter to look after.”

“We won’t let them down,” Greg said.

“Good. I’m glad we’re agreed.”

 

An hour later, Sherlock stirred in his sleep. John woke instantly.

Sherlock moaned deep in his throat and twitched. “No,” he moaned. “Please don’t hurt me. Please Mary.” Sherlock woke screaming.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John said, reaching out and drawing him into his arms. “It was just a nightmare. You’re safe. You’re home. You’re with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Sherlock sobbed into John’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ruined your marriage.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I . . . It’s not your fault. I should be apologizing to you for the rest of my life.”

Mycroft, who was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, stood up and asked, “Are you alright?”

“I had a bad dream. I’ll be okay.”

“Alright. John, Mrs. Hudson has gone with one of my men to pick up Rosie. They should be back in a little while.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft nodded. “I should get back to the office. Sherlock, please let me know if you need anything.” 

“I will. Thank you, My.”

John turned to Sherlock as Mycroft entered the lift. “I don’t know what I’ll say to her. I don’t know how to explain that her mama won’t be back.”

“I’m sorry, John. M . . . maybe I should never have come back.”

“No, Sherlock. Stop it. Do you think I would have wanted to stay with her? She has something wrong with her. She could have hurt the children or me.”

“But she loves you. She wouldn’t hurt you.”

“But she did. When she hurt you.”

“I know, but if it wasn’t for me . . .”

“Sherlock, please listen to me. I would never have survived this long without you in my life. I was seriously considering ending everything before I met you. You have me something to live for. You made me happy. You helped with the PTSD. Don’t think I didn’t know that you played your violin at night after I woke up from the nightmares just to sooth me. You saved me. And it almost killed me when you jumped off St. Bart’s. I know you had no choice. I know you did it to save me. And I know I was angry when you came back. But I was so happy to know that you were still alive. And now . . . I know I love you more than I ever loved Mary. Everyone else could see it but me. You and Rosie are the best things in my life.”

“E . . . even now? I . . . I’ll never be that Sherlock you fell in love with.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll always be my Sherlock.”

“But you aren’t gay.”

“We’ll figure it out. I never told you but, when I was in Afghanistan, when we got back from dangerous missions, sometimes a few of us, to let out the stress, we’d . . . well, we’d wank each other. And I liked it. I’ve never had full on sex with a man. But, like I said, we’ll figure it out. If you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” Sherlock said, squeezing John. “You love me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. “Mycroft and I told everyone. We had an idea. Of course, I wouldn’t want to do it without your okay.”

“What is it?”

“It was Mrs. Hudson’s idea. I said I didn’t know how I could go back to that flat. She said that Rosie could move into my old room upstairs and I could stay in your room with you. Would that be okay?”

Sherlock struggled a bit to look up at John. “Of course it would be okay. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. Whatever you need to make you happy.”

“I want to make you happy. Are you sure it won’t be too much, given everything that’s happened?”

“I want you here. This has always been your home, John. And it always will be.”

“This has always felt like home. It’ll take a few days. Rosie and I will be staying at a hotel until everything’s moved. Mycroft’s taking care of it.”

“You’re sure you won’t mind staying here with me? I mean sleeping in the same bed? I know I’ve been terribly clingy lately.”

“It’s good. I like holding you in my arms. I like sleeping with you. I still don’t know what to tell Rosie.”

“She’s too young for the truth. Even though Mary did this, she’s still Rosie’s mother. There have to be pictures of her in at least Rosie’s room. She has to be allowed to talk about her. Maybe you could tell her that Mary’s sick. Which, I think, is true. And after the baby comes home . . . it would be kinder to tell her that Mary died, I think. Someday, when she’s grown up, it might be time to tell her, but not now.”

“Maybe, you’re right. I don’t want to scare her or lie to her but this is probably the best way.”

They heard the lift start. John gently moved Sherlock and sat up. “You’re sure about all of this?”

Sherlock reached out and clenched John’s hand. He nodded and smiled. “I’ll be here for you if you need me.”

“I think I’m always going to need you,” John whispered. He stood up and waited for the lift to open.

“Papa!” Rosie said as she ran into John’s arms. “Where’s Mama? Wasn’t she supposed to pick me up today?”

“Honey, I have to talk to you.”

Mrs. Hudson silently moved to the kitchen.

“Come sit down, love,” he said. He took her over to sit in Sherlock’s chair while he sat in his own.

“What’s wrong, Papa?”

“It’s about Mama, honey. I’m afraid that Mama is very sick.”

“She was okay this morning.”

“It’s not like the flu or a cold. She’s sick in her mind, honey. I’ve had to put her in the hospital.”

“One like Uncle Sherlock was in?”

“Something like that.”

“Can I see her?”

“Not now. She’s very sick and it’s not really a good place for little girls to visit. In the meantime, Sherlock is home now, and he needs someone to take care of him. So I thought we could move in here. There’s a room upstairs for you, and you can decorate it any way you like. It was my room when I lived here.”

“And when Mama gets out of the hospital?”

“Then we can go home,” John lied.

“So we’ll live here with Uncle Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson? Will Mama be in the hospital long?”

“I don’t know, Rosie. But Mama said she loves you.”

“And Mama’s baby?”

“The baby’s okay.”

Rosie sat in silence for a few moments and then nodded her head. “Okay Papa. If I make pictures for Mama, will you take them to her? Will you give her hugs and kisses for me?”

He reached out and pulled her into his lap. “I will,” he said. He hugged her tight and kissed her cheek.

When he let her go, she reached up and patted his face. “Don’t worry, Papa. It’ll be okay.”

She turned to Sherlock. “Hi, Uncle Sherlock.”

“Hi, Rosie,” Sherlock said.

“Uncle Sherlock,” she said as she scrambled up on the sofa and hugged him. “Are you feeling better?”

“Now that I’m home.”

“I’m excited to be living here with you while Mama’s away.”

“That’s great. I’m excited too. Do you want your room to be a different colour?”

“What colour is it now?”

“You know, I don’t know. I’ve never been up there.”

“We can go up and look now. We can move all your things here. We’ll be living in a hotel room until the changes are made. And don’t forget, you’ll be sharing the room with your little brother or sister.”

“What do you want Rosie? A brother or a sister?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know. A little sister would be nice, so I can play dress up and everything like that. But it could be nice to have a little brother.”

“I think either would be nice,” Sherlock agreed. “What do you think a good name would be?”

Rosie’s eyes sparkled. “How about Henry if it’s a boy and Henrietta if it’s a girl?”

John laughed. “Maybe.”

Sherlock looked confused.

“Rosie has a bit of a crush on Prince Harry.” 

“He is a prince after all,” Sherlock said, nodding. 

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful for you to be a princess, Rosie. One day. Maybe you could marry Prince George. Then you could be queen some day,” John said.

Rosie clapped her hands. “You really thing so, Papa?”

“Sure, why not? It certainly couldn’t hurt that Uncle Sherlock’s brother practically runs the British government.”

Rosie smiled widely as Sherlock chuckled. John could feel tears prickling in his eyes. To see the two people he loved most in the world smiling and laughing made his heart beat faster with joy.

“Wait a minute, Papa,” Rosie said. “If me and the baby have the room upstairs, where are you gonna sleep?”

“In Sherlock’s room.”

“With Uncle Sherlock?”

“Sometimes I have really bad dreams, and your Papa is one of only a few people who can calm me down. And I’m always cold and your Papa’s always warm. It makes me warm too.”

“Will you be making noises like you and Mama make sometimes at night?”

John’s face turned red.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said.

“Are you in love with Uncle Sherlock, Papa?”

“I love Uncle Sherlock very much.”

“More than you love Mama?”

John looked at Sherlock and those beautiful eyes looked back, full of love.

“Yes, I do.”

“Is that why Mama’s in the hospital?”

John didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell her the truth. But he didn’t want to lie either. “Your Mama is very sick, Rosie. I needed her to go there because she might hurt someone or herself, so it’s the best place for her. The doctors can help her.” A picture of Mycroft patiently waiting for the baby to be born so he could torture Mary flashed across his mind’s eye.

Sherlock looked down at his ruined hands, and John’s heart clenched. He reached out to touch Sherlock, to ground himself.

Rosie looked between the two men as they looked at each other. And her eyes filled with tears. “D . . . did Mama hurt Uncle Sherlock, Papa? Was it her that hurt him?”

John looked up in surprise at his daughter. She’d put that together like Sherlock would have. Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears as he looked down at his hands again.

“She did. She hurt Uncle Sherlock. She hurt his legs and his hands and his head and his face. Why, Papa? Why would Mama do that? Why?”

“Rosie . . . I . . .” he reached out and gathered her in his arms. “Your Mama didn’t do it herself. She hired people to do it.”

“But why, Papa?”

“S . . . she didn’t like it that Uncle Sherlock loved me. She wanted Uncle Sherlock to go away so she and I could be together. I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

Rosie looked over at Sherlock. He was clenching his hands and shaking. She threw herself out of her father’s arms and into Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry, Uncle Sherlock. I’m sorry Mama hurt you.”

Sherlock was caught by surprise but hugged Rosie close.

“I hate Mama. I hate her. She shouldn’t have done this to you.”

Sherlock spoke with a shaky voice. “No. I don’t want you to hate your Mama. Whatever else she did, your Mama loves you and Papa and the baby. She loves all of you.”

“But she hurt you so bad, Sherlock. How can you want me to not hate her?”

“Because she’s your Mama. She’ll always be your Mama. You have to remember that. Do you think you can? For me?”

Rosie sniffed and nodded her head. She threw herself back into Sherlock’s arms, and he hugged her. “I know it’s hard. But your Papa’s here for you. And I am too, if you want.”

“I do want,” she said.

John looked at Sherlock in awe. Sherlock should have been the one who was angry, full of resentment, hurt, sad. He should be screaming at John, not wanting to see him again. But here he was, tenderly comforting Mary’s daughter, telling her not to hate her mother for hurting him. Mary had taken everything away from him, to the point where he’d tried to kill himself, but he was willing to do this for Rosie. John wanted to tell Rosie to forget Mary. That Mary was evil. But Sherlock — the one everyone said didn’t have emotions, didn’t care, was a robot — he was the one who was acting like a father.

He reached out and pulled both of them into his arms. John felt his heart swelling. All this time wasted. All of the denial. All of the utter bullshit he’d put this poor man through. All for nothing. He loved Sherlock — loved him more than any woman he’d ever dated, more than Mary.

“It’ll be alright,” Sherlock whispered. “Until you and Papa want to move out, you always are home here.”

“Why would we want to leave?” Rosie asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe someday Papa will want to have a place of his own for you and your brother and sister. I’m sure someday he might get tired of me and move in with someone new.”

“That’s never going to happen,” John said, his voice firm as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“You never know, John.”

“I do.”

“Uncle Sherlock, you need us to stay with you. And we will,” Rosie said solemnly. 

Sherlock smiled at her.

“Rosie,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Do you want to come down with me to my flat and make some cookies?”

“Can I, Papa?”

He smiled and nodded.

Rosie smiled and hopped off the sofa.

John gathered Sherlock into his arms. “I’m never leaving here or you again,” he whispered. “This is the only home I’ll ever want.”

“But you could fall in love again. The children might want to have a mother. You need more in your life than me. I’m just a poor substitute for something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You’re all I want. I know that now. You’re all I’ll ever want.”

“I just want you to be happy, John, and I don’t know that living with me will be enough for you. I don’t know what I can offer you.”

“Your love. Your heart. You’ve already given them to me and they’re more than enough. I owe you so much. You’ve given and given and sacrificed. And I brought the person into your life who did this to you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to feel guilty or try to make anything up to me. Absolutely everything I did, I did because I love you. Because I wanted you to be safe and happy. If you love someone, you’re not supposed to expect something back. Your happiness and safety are much more important to me than my own. In fact, I’m glad she did this to me. She might have turned against you instead. She might have done this to you. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

The look in Sherlock’s eyes, the love he saw there, was almost overwhelming. “But she hurt you because of me. Because she was jealous.”

“No. She hurt me because of her own problems. Not you.”

“You’re never going to let me accept the blame for this, are you?”

“Never. You’re my John and I love you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.” He smiled at John. “But listen,” he reached out and took John’s hand. “I meant what I said. You don’t know the future. There may be a woman out there that you’ll fall in love with. I don’t want to stand in your way. I don’t know if you even really want me. I know how important sex is to you.”

“Sherlock,” John said as he reached out to touch Sherlock’s face. “Look at me. I don’t know what to think anymore. My father was so angry when Harry came out. Even then, I was attracted to the rugby team captain, I just couldn’t accept it. At the time and for so many years after, I thought it was just that I wanted to be as good a player as he was. And I told you about Afghanistan. I don’t know, Sherlock. I think I might be bi.”

“Or you could be pansexual. I think I’m demisexual. I never felt attraction to anyone before you. No one. And it was because I knew I loved you.”

“How? I can’t understand. I’ve seen men and women look at you. You could have almost anyone you wanted. Why me? I’m nothing special.”

“Of course you are. You’re an honourable man. You’re a good man. You’re kind and caring. And you’re incredibly handsome.”

John blushed. “And I have an awful temper and I’m impatient, and . . .”

“I know that love is supposed to be blind, but I know that you aren’t perfect. Neither am I. I’m well aware of my deficiencies. I don’t feel worthy of you, John. I never have.”

“How could you think that?”

“Look at how people have treated me in the past. I’m a freak. I’m a sociopath. Sebastian told you how everyone hated me at uni. I insulted people because it hurt them and I wanted to fight back for what they’d done to me. Do you have any idea how much it hurt each and every time Donovan and Anderson called me freak? I’ve felt all my life that I’m not good enough, not smart enough. And I can’t feel like I deserve you. Never.”

“You’ve always been good, Sherlock. You’re a wonderful man. And I love you. Everyone who’s ever said anything bad about you — they were all wrong. You’re so smart, so good, you’ve helped so many people. I love you just the way you are.”

Sherlock looked down at his ruined hands. “I don’t deserve it. You deserve a whole person. I’ll never be whole again, John. I’m never, ever going to be anything but someone to care for. I don’t want to take you away from your children. It would be selfish of me. I really don’t want you ending up resenting me. I want you to live here now. But one day, you’ll be on your feet again, and you’ll want to move on. But I know you, John. You’ll stay until the end of time, even if you didn’t want to, out of loyalty or guilt. I don’t want you to ruin your life over me. I want you to stay as long as you want, but when you want to leave, I want you to go. Promise me, John.” The watery blue eyes looked up at him. Sherlock was willing to give him up if he thought it would make him happy. John knew he’d never been loved like this — not in his whole life — and it overwhelmed him.

His wife had nearly destroyed Sherlock to keep John for her own — and Sherlock was willing to give him up forever if it would make John happy. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered, his throat tight with emotion. “Don’t you see? It’s because you’d be willing to give me up that makes me love you even more.”

“But, someday . . .”

“Someday will take care of itself. Let’s live for today. Let’s live for what we feel today. Tomorrow will take care of itself, yeah?”

Sherlock smiled at John — the smile that only John got to see. “You’re probably going to regret this you know.”

“We’re going to make mistakes. Everyone does. But if we’re together, it’ll be alright. I know it will. You’re mine and I’m yours. That’s all that matters.”

Sherlock laughed. 

“If only I’d realized before. If only I’d let myself feel. I was so angry when you came back. I should never have married her. When you told me, quite openly, at the reception that you loved me, I felt it. I felt a moment’s doubt, and I should have followed it. But then she was pregnant, and I . . .”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Do you think she got pregnant with Rosie on purpose? Do you think she did it in case I backed out of the wedding realizing I couldn’t back out if I knew she was having my baby?”

“I don’t know. If she knew all along that I loved you, it’s possible. It would make sense.”

“Oh God, and now the baby. She got pregnant to pull me farther away from you.” 

“It’s alright, John. It’s alright.” 

“No. Don’t you see? My children. Rosie and the baby. She conceived them so that I’d stay with her. She used them. She . . . I . . .”

Sherlock touched John’s face. “Stop it, John. They’re your children. You love them. You’ll always love them. And so will their Uncle Sherlock.”

“But the reason they were conceived . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. However, they were conceived. It doesn’t matter because Rosie is here now and you love her, right?”

“With all my heart.”

“And you’ll love the baby the same way. You love them. They’re your children. Nothing else matters.”

“Y . . . you’re right. It’s just so . . . I never thought of it.”

“She’s hurt us both, John. We both have things to work through. I think you should see Ella.”

“You’re probably right. It’s been such an unbelievable day. My world’s turned upside down.”

“I’ll be here for you, I promise.”

John smiled at him. 

Dr. Roberts approached them. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think it’s time for your exam, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock turned pale as John carried him back into the bedroom and laid him down.

“It’s okay,” John said as he took Sherlock’s hand. “Just look at me.”

Sam pulled the blankets back and helped undress Sherlock. John and Sam held his legs up as Dr. Foster quickly performed the exam. Sherlock winced and started breathing hard.

“It’s alright. You’re okay,” John said.

“Alright. You’re still red and swollen. I think the infection is still there. Have you been sitting a lot today?”

“Quite a bit,” Sherlock said as Sam put a new nappy on him and redressed him.

“Please try to avoid it as much as possible for awhile. You’re still healing and you might stretch the stitches.” 

Sherlock nodded. 

Dr. Roberts asked Sam to take his temperature.

“36.5.”

“It’s down a degree. Good. I’ll give you some more antibiotics.” When he had, he and Sam left.

Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door. “I’ve brought your shake.”

John helped him to drink. 

“I’m going to be so sick of these in the next few weeks.”

“Do you think you should see Dr. Cooper? You’ve gone through a lot today.”

“Perhaps. He should be here soon.”

“I’ll call him.”

Dr. Cooper arrived half an hour later. He and Sherlock talked. Sherlock asked John to stay.

“My brothers have found the person who hired the men to kidnap me.”

“That’s good. You must feel much better. Are they in custody?”

“Yes. The problem is this person is someone I know. Someone I considered a very close friend.”

‘Oh, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“It was my wife,” John said.

“She was jealous because I love John, and she realized long ago that he loves me. It’s a long and convoluted story, but she and the men are all in custody. None of them can hurt me anymore, but it’s so overwhelming. She was part of my family. She stayed with me when I was sick. And all along she hated me. All along she was planning this.” Tears started to trickle down Sherlock’s face.

“I understand that you feel betrayed. Anyone would. The fact that it was someone you knew makes it all the worse. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Confused, sad, a bit angry, and yes, betrayed.”

“All perfectly normal reactions to something like this. It’s not something you can quickly get over. You’re dealing with so much right now. And this can’t be helping with your depression and self-esteem issues. But you do have a great support system. And the fact that you feel safe here will help.”

“John and his daughter are moving in soon. Olivia and the new baby will be moving in upstairs.”

“And John?”

“I’ll be sleeping here with Sherlock.”

“It helps me relax and helps me sleep when he’s here. I don’t have nightmares when he holds me.”

Dr. Cooper looked a bit concerned. “You aren’t going to be having sexual relations any time soon are you?”

John and Sherlock both blushed.

“We haven’t figured that out yet,” Sherlock said. “I’d like to, but John’s only recently realized his feelings for me.”

“And I don’t think I’m quite sure yet about sex. I do realize that Sherlock wouldn’t be capable of having penetrative sex for quite a while yet, either physically or emotionally. For now, it won’t be anything like that.”

“I’m perfectly happy with John just holding me. If that’s all he can ever give me, that’ll be enough.”

Dr. Cooper nodded. “That’s a very good attitude to have. I think we should, though, begin to work on the idea of sex, just in case. Right after we get the depression and self-esteem issues under control. How are you feeling about yourself?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “N . . . not that good, really. It upsets me that someone I cared about could do this to me. She knew exactly what to do to hurt me the most. The loss of my body seemed targeted — my fingers so I couldn’t play my violin or do experiments, my legs so I couldn’t chase criminals through the streets, scarring everywhere, especially my face, so John wouldn’t be attracted to me. Destroying my mind so I couldn’t be a consulting detective anymore. But the rapes . . . she asked me once if I was a virgin and I told her sex didn’t interest me, except for one person. And she had to take that away — had to make me feel dirty and used. I can’t have sex with John even if I was able to. Not how I wanted it, anyway. Not until I’m sure that I’m clean. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to feel safe doing it. That I’ll ever be able to do it without flashing back. She took that from me. I wanted John to be the only one to ever touch me and now . . . and now that will never happen. I’ll always know. Every time he touches me, I’ll know that they stole that from me. It was mine to give but they took that choice from me. All because Mary was jealous of me.”

“You aren’t dirty, Sherlock. You’ll never be,” John said, taking his hand. “You’re still a virgin in my eyes. You only lose your virginity when you give it to someone willingly.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, John. But could you ever make love to me, seeing the scars and everything, and not think about it? Not think about what they did to me?” Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes full of tears.

John looked back, feeling tears prickling in the corners of he eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ll ever make love, Sherlock. I’d like to think we will, but I don’t know. This is all so new. We’ve both got so much to process. There are other ways of making love. It doesn’t have to be me penetrating you or you penetrating me. We’ll come to that when the time comes.”

“But you aren’t answering the question. You said you think I’m a virgin but when it comes right down to it, you’ll be thinking of what they did to me, won’t you?”

John tried to lie. He tried his hardest but the look in Sherlock’s eye convinced him only the truth would do. “I . . . I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t know that I could.”

“You see. I knew it.”

“Only because I’d be worried that I’d hurt you, and I’d want to try to show you that making love isn’t about pain or humiliation. It’s about love.”

Sherlock looked up at John. “I know. I know you would only have the best in mind, but you shouldn’t have to. The first time we make love, if there is a first time, should be free. It should be two people who love each other trying to give each other pleasure. It shouldn’t be worrying that the other will freak out and have a flashback. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry that, if we ever got that far, I’ll ruin it. I know I will.”

“No. No, you won’t. That you want me. That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”

“Sherlock, as I said, we can work on this. Once we can get your depression under control, it will be better,” Dr. Cooper said.

“I just want to forget it. To pretend it never happened. I try. I try so hard, but it’s always there at the back of my mind. When it gets quiet, when it’s dark . . . I hear myself screaming. I try to ignore it, but as soon as I let the screams in, it all comes flooding back. I can’t control it.”

“There are ways. We’ve been working on it,” Dr. Cooper responded.

“The pills and the therapy aren’t working. It’s like those five days and that night in the hospital . . . It’s like they define who I am. It’s like the rest of my life never happened sometimes. They are me. The victim. The ruined. The scarred. The worthless. The useless. It’s like nothing I’ve ever done is real. It’s like my career as a consulting detective never happened. Like everything didn’t happen.”

“I know you feel that way, but you can’t let the trauma and pain define you. You’re much more than that,” Dr. Cooper said.

“But I can’t do anything I could do before. I just have to look down to see my hands, my legs, the scars. I can’t not think about it.”

“You aren’t any of those things, Sherlock,” John said. “I know, a little bit, about this. When I got shot, all I could think of was how useless I was.”

“But you got better. I won’t ever get better. I won’t ever be smart again.”

“Sherlock, this feels like you’re regressing. We’ve started to deal with this and have been making very good progress,” Dr. Cooper said.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. I’ve had a big shock today. I feel . . . terrible. To know that I was hated that much. To know that I was hated that much. To be punished like this. I can’t help thinking that, in some way,” Sherlock paused and then whispered, “I deserved it.”

“Sherlock, of course you didn’t! Don’t think that! She punished you because she got it into her head that I would leave her for you.”

“But that’s what happened, isn’t it?” he whispered. “If I hadn’t loved you, loved a married man, then maybe . . .”

“You loved me before I got married.”

“If I hadn’t said anything at the wedding . . .” 

“Please, look at me.”

Sherlock looked up into John’s sad eyes. “No one should be punished for being in love. I . . . I’m honoured that you love me.”

“I understand you’ve had a shock. I understand that you’re feeling even worse about yourself. I think I’ll ask Dr. Roberts to give you a sedative. I want you to be calm and to sleep tonight. I can push back some of my appointments, and we can talk tomorrow morning,” Dr. Cooper said.

“I feel so overwhelmed right now. I can’t think. I just want to curl into a ball and cry for the rest of my life. I just want peace. I want this all to end. I don’t know if I can live like this. I don’t know if I want to live like this.”

“Don’t say that, please. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you.” John pulled Sherlock into his arms. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need. Whatever you want.”

“I don’t want you doing things you don’t want to do,” Sherlock sobbed.

“For so long, you’ve sacrificed and given up things, given up your life and never asked for anything in return. You and Rosie are all I care about right now. You’re all I need. And I promise you that you’ll get better I promise. I’ll do everything I can. Alright?”

Sherlock nodded. John whispered things to Sherlock. When he calmed down, Dr. Cooper asked him, “Do you think you’ll be okay?”

“Not for a long time, if at all,” he whispered.

“Do you want me to stay?” Dr. Cooper asked.

“Can we maybe talk about how to get these thoughts to go away? I was making such progress, but it feels like it’s all gone.”

“Of course.”

“John, I know you’re here for me. But Rosie needs you too.”

John nodded. He knew Sherlock needed to talk to Dr. Cooper and didn’t want to hurt his feelings by asking him to leave. “I’ll be out in the sitting room if you need me.”

Dr. Cooper and Sherlock talked and Cooper gave him a few things to try. “Try not to be alone. Or listen to music like in the hospital or watch telly. Keep background noise going so you won’t listen to the screams in your head. You told me about your mind palace.”

“But it’s gone.”

“Couldn’t you start to rebuild it? If you could do that, perhaps you can lock the screams away. At least until you’re strong enough to deal with it.”

“I could try.”

“Good. I think if you try it and those other ways to distract your mind, you may be able to get some peace.”

They continued to talk until Dr. Cooper had to leave.

Sherlock thought about what the doctor had said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The screams echoed through his mind, and he was back in the warehouse, hanging by his hands as they whipped him over and over. He tried to stop feeling it. He tried to find a quiet corner of his mind to work, but everywhere he turned, he found himself being tormented. There! . . . He found a small area of blackness and retreated there where it was quiet. He started with a floor and started building walls before John shook him.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I thought you were trapped in your mind.”

“No. Well sort of. Dr. Cooper suggested I try and build a room to store the screams in.”

“That’s a good idea. Sorry I interrupted.”

“I got the floor and a wall up. It’s hard moving around in my mind. Every place I turn, I’m being tormented somehow. And the screams. I just . . .” Sherlock looked at John helplessly.

“If you want to try again, let me hold you. If you make any noise, I’ll squeeze tighter.”

Sherlock gave him a smile. “I . . . I’ll try. I just want a bit of peace.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and fought past the screams and the scenes running through his head. He got into the dark place again. He slowly built up the walls and ceiling and put in a door. He opened the door and stepped out into his mind, straight into a scene of him laying cold and bleeding on the dirty bed in the warehouse. He was whimpering and calling for John. It was pulling him in. He could feel the pain. The screams were overwhelming him. Then he felt John squeezing. He felt strength through that connection.

The screams were all around him, but he forced them, pushing them ahead of him toward the room. When he’d forced them in, he closed the door and locked it. 

His mind was quiet, or relatively so. Each scene still had a bit of sound but not the screams. 

He opened his eyes. “They’re gone. The screams are gone. Thank you for hugging me. I almost got lost.”

“You were calling for me.”

“It was in the warehouse. It was at night. I was cold and bleeding and whimpering. I was calling for you to come and rescue me.”

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Oh, I wish I could have.”

“I dreamed of you so much — when I could sleep. I even prayed. Can you imagine? I prayed that I could see you just one more time. I was so sure that I was going to die there. So sure they’d kill me or just leave me there until I bled or starved to death. But the only thing I really regretted from my whole life was that I had never told you how much you changed my life. How you made me feel like someone cared. You looked after me. You made me eat and sleep. You called me brilliant. You made me feel that I was worth at least something. I couldn’t die before I told you.”

John sniffed as the tears flowed down his cheeks. “You changed my life too. I was so close to ending it all when I met you. You have done nothing but try to protect me. When you jumped off Bart’s, I thought I’d lost you forever. And I couldn’t take it. I should have been so happy when you came back and I can never apologize enough for that. And knowing that you did it all from love . . . I wish there was some way I could make this up to you.”

“There’s nothing that you have to make up to me. You’re here. That’s enough.”

“But I feel like you’ve given up everything for me.”

“I’ll always give up everything for you, John. Always. It was easier before you knew how I felt about you, somehow. Now . . . I . . . I don’t feel worthy of you. I don’t know that I ever will.”

“How can you say that? You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

“Hardly. I was arrogant and didn’t have a filter on what I said. I hurt people, John.”

“You defended yourself in most cases. And you didn’t seem to understand the right way to respond to situations because you didn’t interact with a lot of people.”

“But you deserve someone whole, John. I’ll never be whole. Not ever again.”

“It doesn’t matter,” John said. “None of it matters. You’re you. You’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re brilliant and amazing.”

“Not anymore I’m not.”

“You are to me. You’ll always be to me.”

“But I’m nothing anymore. I can’t be a consulting detective. I can’t do anything. I don’t want to be dependent on people for the rest of my life. I feel so worthless. I just want to be how I was before. I’m helpless. I want to be independent, but I never will be. I hate this so much. I hate it.”

“I know you do.”

“I looked after myself for so long, maybe not as I should, but now I can’t do the simplest things, nothing.”

“You have to help you.”

“I know. I just don’t want that.” 

“No one wants it.”

“I . . . I know. I know I have to accept that my life will never be anything like it was. I have to accept that I can’t do anything. Do you know how hard it is for me to let Sam and Brad carry me to the loo and to have to clean me up? How awful it is to let them change my nappy? For them to see me naked and bathe me? I hate what my body looks like. I hate the scars. I hate that my fingers are gone and my legs are useless. I can’t look down at myself. I can’t look in the mirror.”

“Right now, it’s hard. I couldn’t look at my shoulder for a long time.”

“But this is different.”

“It must be so hard. So frustrating. So overwhelming. If I could take it from you, if I could take it on myself, I would do it.”

“No. Even if you could, I wouldn’t let you.”

“Protecting me, even now, even hypothetically.”

“Always. I want you to be happy, John. I want that more than anything. I . . . I just don’t see how being with me could possibly make you happy. We couldn’t be a real couple. You would end up becoming a caregiver more than a boyfriend.”

“You have caregivers. I will be your boyfriend. I know it will be hard, but we have both wasted so much time. I don’t want to waste more. It’s not going to be easy. I was married yesterday with a wife I may not have truly loved but now it’s gone. I’ve a daughter and a baby coming. I don’t know what to do. I feel helpless and overwhelmed. But I know that I can count on you. I know that you’re here. I need you, Sherlock. I hate to ask it of you but my world has turned itself upside down. I need a foothold in this world. And I think that foothold is you. You and your love.”

Sherlock reached out and touched John’s face. “Of course. Of course I’ll be here for you. Always. I have to stop thinking about myself. Stop feeling sorry for myself. You need me. And I’ll always be here. After all,” he said with a half smile, “where else would I be?”

“You aren’t feeling sorry for yourself. You’re suffering from depression and PTSD.”

“But I can’t indulge in it anymore.”

“You don’t indulge in depression. It’s a disease, Sherlock.”

“Just let me be here. You should go. I think you should have some alone time with Rosie. She’s lost her mother after all. I can’t take all of your time.”

“She’s being brave, but she’s going to miss her mama. Are you sure? I don’t really want to leave you alone. You need someone here with you.”

“I’ll be okay. They’re going to give me a sedative so I can sleep. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t feel right leaving you. Let us have dinner at least. I’ll leave after that.”

“No. Take Rosie to dinner. Be with her. She’ll have questions, I’m sure. I’ll be fine. I’ll have my protein shake and maybe the doctor will let me have ice cream. It’s alright.”

“I’m going to call Mycroft.”

“He’ll be too busy. I don’t want to bother anyone.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“Go be with your daughter. I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

John smiled at Sherlock as he went out to get Rosie. 

As soon as he heard the lift start, Sherlock dropped any pretence that he was alright. He gave in to the pain. He awkwardly turned over to stare out the window. He carefully and strictly held in the tears, not willing to give Mary the satisfaction. He remembered the cold look on her face when she stood over him as he lay weak and helpless in the hospital after she shot him. He remembered her threatening him. Of course she meant to shoot him, and she knew that it could kill him. But she’d been able to school herself around him since until she’d demanded John stop spending so much time with him. He should have expected it. Some sort of retribution. But nothing this big. Nothing this vindictive. It would have been better if he’d died when she shot him. If he’d died, Magnusson would have had no reason to blackmail Mary because Sherlock was gone and, with him, Magnusson’s pressure point for Mycroft. If he’d died, John would have needed Mary to get through his death, and she would have had what she wanted. John would never have known that she shot him and Mary would have been happy to have her life with John.

So, once again, the mere fact that Sherlock had lived had brought all of this on. He would have been better off laying underneath that black stone with his name on it in the cemetery. Or if he hadn’t sent the coded message to Mycroft and he’d let himself be tortured to death in Serbia. Or had let John get on with his life and not come back from the dead at all. Had he done so, had he not been so absolutely sure that John would be delighted to have him back, had he stopped to think that John would be upset — had he thought of someone besides himself. He’d have been miserable in another country without John and his family and friends. But it would have been best for John. He could have had Mycroft watch John and keep him safe.

Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door. “You okay, Sherlock? You’re awful quiet.”

“Just thinking.” 

She nodded. “I’m so glad you’re home. We have so many daytime shows to catch up on. So much gossip about Mrs. Turner and the married ones, my sister, and the people at the church.”

Sherlock turned over awkwardly and smiled at her. “I have missed my days with you. John will be away at work and Rosie at school so we’ll have plenty of time.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Not really. I just learned that someone I trusted was behind what happened to me. It’s so much . . . it’s too much. The last few months have been a nightmare. I just wish I could wake up.”

“You’re the strongest person I know, Sherlock.” She sat down beside him. “Most people would have broken long before now.” 

“I’ve had to fight so much. I tried isolating myself. I tried fighting back. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t give up. And don’t hide it from John. He has to know how you feel. Let us help you.”

Sherlock felt his control slipping. He drew in a deep breath, trying to shut down his emotions or at least rein them in.

“I know you’re struggling right now. I don’t blame you. Just let us in.”

“It’s just so hard. I feel like I’m being punished for something. I don’t know what I did. I don’t know who to apologize to or how to make it right.”

She leaned closer to him. “Oh Sherlock. You aren’t being punished. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were in love. And that’s not something anyone should be punished for. It’s all because someone went mad and did this to you.”

“I . . . Do you think you could get Sam to come in? I need to talk to my brother.”

“Alright. I’ll be out in the sitting room.” She called for Sam and he brought Sherlock his mobile. 

Sherlock hit the automatic dial.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“No . . . I . . . I don’t think I am. I need you, My. I sent John to the hotel to look after Rosie but I can’t be alone right now. C . . . can you come, please? I . . . I think . . . I can’t control myself much longer. Please. Please, My.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Sherlock turned off the mobile. His control was slipping. “Just a few more minutes. My will be here soon,” he said to himself. He was shaking, shivering. He could feel his emotional barriers dropping one by one. His teeth began to chatter. He tried to roll himself, as best he could, into a ball and rock back and forth. He could hear himself tunelessly humming and knew it wasn’t good. He wrapped his arms around himself. In his head, he could hear something pounding on the door to the room where he’d stored his screams.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” he heard from the door.

“N . . . no. No.”

Mrs. Hudson called for Sam and Dr. Roberts. She reached out and touched his head. “It’s okay, Sherlock. You’re safe.”

“My . . . My,” Sherlock called.

Dr. Roberts listened to Sherlock’s heart.

“Sherlock, your heart is beating too fast. I think you’re having an anxiety attack. You’ve got to breath deeply for me. Okay?”

Sherlock tried to breathe deeply. He tried to clamp down on his feelings. He couldn’t break down, not in front of everyone. He took deeper and deeper breaths. He could feel his heart slowing down but was getting light-headed.

“Good. Good. Keep breathing. Calm down.”

Sherlock tried. “Please. Please just go. Please.”

Dr. Foster motioned for Sam and Mrs. Hudson to leave. 

He sat down beside Sherlock. “You’re close to a breakdown, Sherlock. I recognize the signs. The rocking, the humming, the shaking.”

“My . . . I need my brother.”

“I can give you a sedative. Dr. Cooper asked me to give you one tonight. I can give it to you now.”

“Just need my brother. Please. That’s all.”

“I understand you need emotional support. But I can help you.”

“Please. I just need My. Please.”

Sherlock heard the lift engage. “My!” he yelled. “My!”

He heard the sound of footsteps running for the room. Mycroft appeared at the door. 

Sherlock reached out to him as the dam burst. Tears fell down his face, sobs ripped through him. “My!”

Mycroft lay down next to him and pulled his little brother into his arms.

“My, My, My,” Sherlock sobbed as he clutched at his brother.

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

“I . . . I . . . can’t do this. I can’t. Why? Why can’t it be like it was before? Why? I don’t want to be a freak anymore.”

“You aren’t a freak.”

“If I wasn’t, she wouldn’t have done this.”

“That . . . woman is a psychopath. And will be punished once she’s safely delivered of her child. She is being held. She won’t ever hurt you again.”

“But she already has. She’s ruined me. I’m nothing. There’s nothing left of me.”

“Mr. Holmes, I can give your brother a sedative to calm him. He’s close to a breakdown.”

“Let me talk to him. Let me be with him. If I need you, I’ll call.”

“Alright.” Dr. Roberts got up and left the room, closing the door.

“There’s plenty left of you, Sherlock. You’re my brother. Would I tell you that you would be okay if I didn’t think you would be?”

“I . . . I . . . I locked up my screams but they’re trying to escape.” He stopped. “The warehouse. I’m in the warehouse. They’re hurting me. My, make them stop. Please.”

“You aren’t there, Sherlock. You’re here with me. You’re home. You’re at two hundred and twenty one B. You’re safe. I promise. Can you feel me? Can you feel me touching you?”

“No. Please don’t. Please not again. Don’t touch me there. Please. It’s not for you. It’s for John. Only for him. Please no more.” Sherlock jerked like he was being hit. “Please,” he begged. Then he screamed.

“Sherlock! You aren’t there! You’re safe! I’ll keep you safe. I promise!” Mycroft shook Sherlock, trying to wake him from reliving one of his rapes.

“Help me, My! Make them stop!”

Sherlock squirmed and cried out like he was in terrible pain.

“It’s alright, Sherlock! Come back to me! Come home to me! It’s your brother. Please come back!”

Sherlock clutched at Mycroft.

“Look at me, Sherlock! Look at me!”

Sherlock’s wild, pain-filled eye came to Mycroft’s. “My?”

“Yes, it’s me. Look at me. You aren’t in the warehouse. You’re safe.”

“My. My, you came. Please don’t let them hurt me anymore.”

“They’re gone. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

“They hurt me every day, My. I can feel them hurting me now. How can I expect John to love me? I can’t do anything now. What will I do?”

“John loves you. Nothing else matters.”

“I want John to be happy. I want the best for him. I’m not that. I never was. I never will be. I need him. I need him like air, but I’m tainted now. I’m dirty.”

“No, you had no control over it. You aren’t.”

“I don’t know for sure if I have HIV, Mycroft. I won’t know for six months. I don’t know if I can physically or psychologically have sex. That’s if John decides he wants to have sex with me.”

“That’s a lot of if’s Sherlock. Don’t worry about it. John loves you. Let that be enough for now.”

“I can’t do this. What can I do?”

“You have us. We’ll be here for you.” 

“I don’t want anyone to have to be here for me. I want my old life back.”

“If I could do it, I would. I would trade places with you if I could. I wish I could give you your legs and your hands and your mind back.”

“I know you would. I can’t lean so much on John. He’s upset. His world’s been turned upside down too.”

“But you’ve had a difficult time too.” 

Sherlock clutched his brother, crying into his chest. “Don’t leave me, My. Don’t leave me. I need you tonight.”

“I’ll stay. Can I get you anything?”

“Not now. Just hold me. Make me feel safe. I need you, My.”

“I won’t leave. I’m the British Government. If I can’t make you safe, who else can?”

Sherlock could still feel himself shaking. The pounding on the door in his mind palace was still going on. 

“Just relax, Little Brother. Quiet your mind.”

“I can’t, My. If my mind is quiet, I can hear them. I feel them. I need sound or something to distract me. Talk to me, My.”

Mycroft started talking, telling him stories about their childhood. He told stories of playing pirates with Mycroft and Redbeard.

Sherlock could feel himself calming down. My’s voice was calming him. The voices in his head were quieting. He was slowly relaxing.

Sam knocked on the door. “I have your shake, Sherlock. Are you ready for it?”

“I’ll take it,” Mycroft said. “Are you ready for this?”

“I don’t want it, My. I’m not hungry.”

“You have to, Sherlock. I can feel your ribs and the vertebra in your back.”

“My, I don’t like them.”

“I know. But you can’t have solids for weeks yet.”

“I know. I’m aware of it every time they change my nappy. Just give it to me. I’ll drink it.”

Sherlock really didn’t want it but he choked it down anyway. It sat in his stomach sloshing. He knew he was supposed to drink it but he felt so bad. He wanted so much to have control of something, anything in his life. He hated feeling like this.

“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked.

“I wish I could say yes. I wish I could ever feel like I’d be okay. I feel so helpless, My. I can’t control anything in my life, nothing. Other people decide everything for me. When and what I eat, when I go to the loo, when I get dressed, where I sit, where I go.”

“You have control of all of it, Sherlock.”

“I don’t feel like I do.”

“It’s because you can’t do it for yourself. It’s frustrating. But you have to accept that this has been what your life has become.”

“I’m well aware of that. I’m well aware I’m useless and will be for the rest of my life. I don’t want John to feel like he has to be a caregiver to me rather than a boyfriend. I’m afraid that he’ll stay with me because he feels guilty or responsible for this.”

“John loves you. He wouldn’t tell you loved you if he didn’t. You have to think about yourself for now. Think about yourself tonight. Take one day at a time. I want you to try and rest. You’ve had a big shock today. I know you’re upset and hurt. Let me be here for you, okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m sorry, My. The depression is worse now. The self-esteem as well. I . . . I’m lost, My. My mind has turned against me. All I have is John and my family and friends.”

“You’re working on it, Sherlock. It’s not something that will be fixed easily or quickly. Like I said, one day at a time. You’ll get better slowly. You have to stop over thinking everything.”

“I’ll try, My,” Sherlock whispered, in the defeated tone that Mycroft hated hearing so much.

“Sam,” Mycroft called. “Can you get Sherlock’s medication and the sedative?”

When Sherlock had had the sedative, Mycroft held him closer and talked quietly telling him stories.

Sherlock fell asleep in Mycroft’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell from the preceding, I followed the series up until after Rosie was born. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock settles in to life at home as he struggles with the obstacles created by his injuries. As he and John get closer, can the flashbacks and nightmares be held at bay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pay attention to the warnings.

Two hours later, Sherlock woke from a violent nightmare with Mycroft shaking him.

“My, oh God, My!”

“What’s wrong?”

“It was Mary. She was watching them when they were whipping me. She was laughing and clapping. Then she pulled out a gun and shot me. I could feel it.”

“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me.”

“Only a friend would know how to hurt me the most, and she did. She took our friendship and used it against me. She took things I confided in her to hurt me. How can I ever trust anyone again?”

“Did you really trust her, Sherlock? Did you really believe her when she said she only shot to wound you?”

“No. I knew she meant to kill me. If she had, none of this would have happened. I died on that table, My. I was dead. I was in my mind palace in the room where I keep Moriarty chained up. I died on the floor. And he was taunting me, telling me that John was in danger. So I clawed my way back to life to save him. If I hadn’t, if I’d given up, it would have been best for everyone.”

“How can you say that?”

“Think about it. If I was gone, Magnusson wouldn’t have had to blackmail Mary. She was John’s pressure point, he was mine, and I was yours. If I was gone, he had no leverage over you. It would have been best for you. It would have been best for all of you. You could have taken down Magnusson. John and Mary would have been safe and happy. Everyone would have gone on without me. I should be lying under that gravestone in the cemetery. It would have been best for all of you.

“Or I should have just let them kill me in Serbia. I should never have sent that code to you.

“I . . . I keep hurting everyone. And now I need so much help. I’m helpless. I wish I’d just died. I wish they’d killed me.”

“Don’t let her do this to you, Sherlock. You’ve made so much progress. Don’t let her take all of this from you. You’re loved. You’re so important to all of us. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“I can’t. I can’t be. I know I’m not important.”

“Yes, you are. You’ll always be important to us. Please believe me.”

“B . . . but how can I be important? I . . . I’m a burden to all of you. What will I do?” Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, his eye full of pain. “What’ll I do if John leaves? I can’t live without him, My. You have to promise me something. Swear on your life.”

“What do you want? I’ll get you anything you want.”

“When John leaves, when he gets on with his life and finds someone else, please help me. I promised John I would live because he wanted me to. But when he leaves, I want you to help me die.”

“Sherlock, you can’t ask me to do that.”

“John is thinking about what I mean to him. He says he loves me, but he doesn’t know if he can have sex with me. I think he’s fooling himself. He thinks he loves me romantically but I can’t believe someone as good as John would want someone like me. He thinks he should love me. He told me that he had some experiences in the army. That several of them would give each other hand jobs after missions. But I can’t believe he would ever want me. Not this scarred wreck of a body. And what if I can’t? John is a very sexual man. He won’t put up with me being like this for too long. He’ll look somewhere else. He’s going to leave, and I can’t survive that. He’s all I have. He’s all I want. And if I can’t have him, I don’t want to live.”

“You’re assuming too much. You’re assuming he’ll leave because you’ve never been in a relationship. You’ve never had someone love you romantically. And you’ve never thought you were good enough. Not even as a child.”

“I wasn’t good enough. I was never good enough. I was the one who got in trouble, who couldn’t sit still, who wouldn’t stop. You were the oldest and the smartest and the one they were proud of. And Ford was the baby and brilliant and well behaved. I didn’t talk for a month, and no one cared. I wasn’t good enough for my family. I wasn’t good enough to have friends.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you’ve felt that way all your life. We did love you, we all do. Mummy and Daddy . . .”

“Only came to see me because of what you said to them. I’m not stupid, Mycroft. I’ve always been a disappointment to them. They told me they loved me but how much of that was because they’re expected to say that?

“I want to feel loved, My. I want someone to love me for who I am. But who can love a freak?” Sherlock sobbed.

“You aren’t a freak. You never have been.”

“I want to feel loved. I want to feel like my life isn’t a waste.”

“You are loved. I wish you could see it. Let me call John.”

“No. He needs to be with Rosie. I don’t want to bother him.”

“If he knew how much pain you were in . . .”

“No. Just . . . just ask Brad to give me something to sleep.”

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Just a drink of water.”

Mycroft got up and went to talk to Brad.

“I can’t give you a sleeping pill, Mr. Holmes,” Brad said. “You’ve just had a sedative. You’re going to have to try and relax. I can put on some of your music.”

Sherlock nodded. He felt shredded emotionally. He just wanted the oblivion of sleep.

Mycroft brought him in his water. They turned on the night light and music. Mycroft took off his rumpled suit and waistcoat.

“My, there’re pyjama bottoms in the wardrobe and T-shirts in the top drawer. You might as well be comfortable.”

Mycroft got the clothes and went into the loo to change, returning a few minutes later. 

Sherlock giggled. “I’ve never seen anyone look so uncomfortable in pyjamas.”

“My pyjamas are silk. Though I must admit these are rather . . . cozy.”

“Only you could make cozy sound like a bad word.”

Mycroft slid into bed beside Sherlock. “Do you want me to hold you?”

“Would you? I feel safer when someone does.”

“Of course I would, Little Brother.” Mycroft gathered his brother into his arms. “As soon as you’re allowed to eat solids again, we’re going to have to get you to eat more. You’re thin as a rail.”

“John said the same thing. I’ll try. I will.”

The brothers laid in silence for a few moments.

“We used to do this a lot when I was little,” Sherlock said. “You and me and Ford and Redbeard.”

“You remember Redbeard?”

“Some things. He’s in my head sometimes.”

“Maybe you should get another dog.”

“I don’t know, My. That would just be something else for John to look after. He’s going to have his hands full with two kids and me. I don’t think he’d want to add a dog too.”

“How about a therapy dog? There are dogs especially trained to help with depression and other problems. I could arrange for it. And John wouldn’t have to necessarily look after it. It could be part of your caregivers’ responsibilities to walk the dog. Other than that, there’s just feeding. Surely John could handle that.”

Sherlock thought about it. “Maybe. I’ll ask John what he thinks. And maybe Dr. Cooper.”

“But only if you want a dog. If you don’t, don’t get one.”

“I would like a dog, My. Not an Irish setter, but a dog would be nice. And Rosie, I think, would like to have a pet.”

“Go to sleep, Little Brother. It’s late.”

“Night, My.”

Mycroft held his brother close until he was sure he was asleep before drifting off himself.

When Mycroft woke, the sun was up. He was pleased that Sherlock had slept through the rest of the night. He sat up and looked down at his brother. He wrinkled his nose. Sherlock needed to be changed. He’d obviously had an accident in his sleep. And the fact that his brilliant brother might be forced to wear nappies for the rest of his life made him want to tear someone apart. It was time for him to visit his prison again. He needed to punish those who had done this.

He watched as Sherlock whimpered in his sleep. Pain lines were apparent around his eyes. Mycroft reached out and touched his brother’s face, running his thumb along his cheekbone. He found himself overwhelmed. If he could have changed places with Sherlock, he would have. Sherlock had been hurt so much in his life; he deserved to be happy; he deserved to have his happy ending. But there were rarely happy endings in real life. And never, it seemed, for his brother.

He wanted Sherlock to have a life with John, the man he had loved since they had first met. But was Sherlock correct? Was John’s guilt causing him to think he was in love with Sherlock? Was he forcing himself to love Sherlock when he really didn’t? If that was true, it would destroy Sherlock, utterly and completely.

John Watson had, in some ways, been the best thing for Sherlock. In other ways, he’d been the absolute worst thing for him. If not for John, he would never have had to go after Moriarty’s men, he wouldn’t have been shot, or had his heart broken, or been kidnapped and tortured and raped. John didn’t directly cause any of it but his presence in Sherlock’s life had caused all of it.

But without John? Sherlock had found someone who had made him feel better about himself, had brought him love, and had saved him from a life of desperation.

Mycroft considered his options. He’d tried very soon after meeting him to threaten John, but John wasn’t afraid of him. However, he knew he had to speak with him. Tell him that he couldn’t hurt Sherlock again. Explain to him how truly fragile Sherlock was.

He looked up as Sam knocked on the door.

“Good morning, sir. Is Sherlock up?”

“No. He’s still sleeping. He’ll need cleaning up. I’m afraid he’s made a mess.”

“It’s not unexpected, sir, given his injuries. And it’s not necessarily permanent.”

“I hope not. He’s suffered enough.” He looked down at Sherlock. “I think he’s in pain.”

“It’s about time for his shot. I’ll get Dr. Roberts after he wakes and I get him cleaned up. Oh, a young woman dropped off clothes for you and asked for your suit.”

“Ah yes, good.”

“She also dropped off a bag with toiletries, she said.”

“Will you stay with him while I take a shower and get dressed?”

“Sure.”

When Mycroft emerged from the loo, he found Sherlock just waking up. “Good morning.”

“My. Did you get any sleep?”

 

“Quite sufficient.”

“Thank you for staying with me. I . . . I don’t think I could have gotten through the night without you.”

“I’m here whenever you need me.”

“I . . . I hate feeling so vulnerable, so lost. But I’m glad that there are people who care.”

“It’ll get better.”

“Maybe. I’m sorry that I woke you. And I’m sorry about the . . . smell. I . . .”

“It’s alright. You can’t help it.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I know. But it’ll get better.”

Sam said, “Do you want me to get you cleaned up? How about a bath?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll leave you to your morning routine.”

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was back in bed covered up and warm, his hair still a bit wet. Mycroft brought him in his shake and watched him drink it.

The brothers talked for a bit before Mycroft had to go.

“I’ve arranged for a leave of absence for John. Everything will be fine. The movers will come later today and move all of his things out of the flat he had with Mary. I don’t want to disturb you too much, while you’re recovering.”

Sherlock nodded and looked up as Dr. Roberts came in.

“Ready for your shot?”

“Yes. I’m feeling quite a bit of pain today.”

Dr. Roberts injected the syringe into Sherlock’s IV. He checked him over, listening to his heart and taking his temperature.

“Everything seems normal. You had a sedative last night?”

“Yes, but I woke up a few hours later from a nightmare. Is there anything you can give me to avoid the nightmares?”

“Not as such. But the music should calm you.”

“Having my brother here and the music helped some. I didn’t have anymore nightmares. My asked me if I wanted to get a therapy dog. Do you think that might help?”

“It could. I’d talk to Dr. Cooper about it. He would know more than I would.”

“Woo hoo,” they heard as the lift door opened. “Anyone want some tea?”

“Love some, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called.

“Would you mind if I go now, Sherlock? If I didn’t have a rather prickly situation in the Middle East to deal with, I would never think of . . .”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said, smiling. “I understand. Thank you for staying with me. And thank you for doing this, for helping John.”

“If you need anything, call me.”

Mrs. Hudson came into the room as Dr. Roberts and Sam went back out. “Ready for the day?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“I suppose so.”

“I heard you scream last night. Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry I disturbed you. I had a nightmare.”

“You poor dear.”

The morning went by with cups of tea and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock watching telly and gossiping. Sherlock felt uneasy and uncomfortable. He hated the fact that he could make a mess and not really control it. Although he was on a liquid diet, it had only been a few days and he knew that the food he’d eaten before the rape was still in his system. 

Sherlock hoped John was alright. He’d hoped to hear from him. Mycroft had arranged for him to take a leave of absence and, knowing Mycroft, that meant that a rather large deposit had been made into John’s bank account.

 

Mycroft sat in the back of one of his cars. John was dropping Rosie at school before he crawled back into the car.

“Let’s go to the Diogenes Club. We can talk there.”

“What’s this about? I should get back to Sherlock.”

“It won’t be long. I left him with Mrs. Hudson. He’ll be fine.”

They drove in silence to the Club and walked back to Mycroft’s office. A full tea service was waiting and Mycroft poured John a cup.

“Okay. All the social niceties have been done. What’s this about?”

“I want to talk to you about Sherlock.”

“Did he have a bad night?”

“He woke up screaming once. But the rest of the night was peaceful. We talked a lot last night.”

“Was he alright this morning?”

“Yes. I’d like to discuss what we talked about last night. He’s in love with you, John. But he’s frightened. He’s scared that you don’t really love him, that you feel guilty because of what your . . . wife did to him. He’s afraid you’ll realize it one day and find another woman and leave him. I know you’ve told him that you love him, and it’s made him incredibly happy. Before this goes any further, you have to be sure, absolutely sure. If you left him, it would be the end of him. He would never survive it. It wouldn’t matter who else was in his life. You’re the only thing holding him together right now. He’s hanging onto his sanity by his fingernails. He needs you more than he needs air. Be sure of your feelings. Don’t hurt him. I don’t ever say this. But I’m begging you, John. Please don’t hurt him.”

John sat there, not quite knowing what to say. “Mycroft . . . I . . . I have no intention of ever hurting, Sherlock. Not ever again. I love him. I do love him, and I always will.”

“But as a friend or as a romantic partner?”

“Mycroft, it’s complicated. My father was an abusive drunk. When he found my sister Harry in bed with her girlfriend, he beat my sister up and threw her out of the house. I was too young to go out on my own or I might have left myself. I had to agree with him or I’d get beaten up. I had to sneak out to see Harry. She was lucky that her girlfriend’s parents took her in. I . . . I’d had feelings for the captain of the rugby team but I told myself it wasn’t true. That I was fooling myself. When I was in the army, it was easy to go along with everyone else and pretend we were a bunch of firmly hetero men who wanked each other because we couldn’t fraternize with the women and it calmed us after a patrol. But my father had scared me so badly, had practically brainwashed me into being as straight as straight could be. That’s why I told everyone who insisted that Sherlock and I were a couple that I wasn’t gay. And every time I said it, there would be a look on Sherlock’s face. Just for a second. It took me a long time to realize that it hurt him every time I said it. I won’t put that on him ever again. The truth that I’ve been denying all my life is that I’m bisexual. I’ve been in love with Sherlock since I met him but kept telling myself he was my best friend only and that Sherlock didn’t feel things like that. And when he jumped off Bart’s . . . I shut down because I never told him. I almost killed myself. I do love him. I do. The sex thing . . . it’s just I’ve never had full sex with another man. And the way Sherlock’s been hurt . . . I don’t want him to think he has to push himself to have sex before he’s ready.”

“I think you need to tell all of this to him. I’m satisfied. I’m sorry that I’ve intruded on your life but . . .”

“I understand, Mycroft. If I were you, I’d probably do the same. You love him and you want to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. I have to call in to work and let them know I have to take some time off.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of doing that for you. I’ve arranged for an extended period. I’ve also deposited a significant amount of money in your account for you and Rosie.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

“It’s not charity. You’ve gone through a lot as well. I want you to be able to focus on Sherlock and your daughter without worrying about work. I’ve also arranged for your flat to be cleaned out and everything put into storage today.”

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

“How is Rosie?”

“She misses Mary. I know I shouldn’t have lied to her, but I can’t tell her everything that Mary did. Rosie cried some last night, but I think when we move into 221B, it’ll be better. We’ll have a stable home with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. And, after the baby comes, it’ll settle down.”

“If you need any help, let me know. We can get a therapist for Rosie, if you think it would be useful.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. I’ll keep an eye out.” John stood up. “I should get back to Sherlock.” He reached out and shook Mycroft’s hand.

“After what I witnessed last night, I need to punish someone. I’m going back to the facility to deal with the men from the hospital and our Mr. Brook. I’m feeling most vengeful. Would you like to come? I’ve already contacted Gregory. He’s meeting us there.”

John smiled an angry smile. “I feel like a bit of vengeance myself.”

Mycroft smiled, “Excellent.”

 

Greg was sitting in his car outside the facility when John and Mycroft arrived. As they travelled down the lift, they each silently contemplated what would happen next. 

The three men were waiting for them, naked and tied to chairs. And all three had the good sense to look terrified. 

“Gentlemen, to the left is our Mr. Richard Brook, who helped Mary arrange all of this. The other two are the hospital rapists: Gordon Phillips and Michael Hughes. Mr. Brook and I have already discussed his punishment. In exchange for the information he quite freely gave, he gets to keep his testicles and he got to choose three of the punishments that the kidnappers received. He’s chosen the whip, the face, and brain damage. For Mr. Phillips and Mr. Hughes, they will of course lose their ability to ever rape anyone ever again. And each gets one of the punishments. Though their attack did set Sherlock’s recovery back quite substantially. Perhaps two apiece? What do you think gentlemen?”

“They deserve all five,” Greg growled.

John nodded. “I agree.”

“Shall we compromise on three each?”

Greg pointed at Hughes. “This one gets the legs, the face, and the whip.”

John nodded towards Phillips. “And he gets the hands and arms, the face, and the whip.”

“Splendid,” Mycroft said.

“Y . . . you can’t do this. We got rights. I want a lawyer.”

Mycroft, Greg, and John all laughed. 

“Do you really think you’re anywhere near the legal system?” Mycroft answered. “You raped my brother. My little brother. He was just starting to heal and you broke him. You are going to pay and pay and pay for what you did.”

Phillips and Hughes looked terrified. 

Mycroft slowly took off his suit jacket and then unbuttoned his waistcoat. He set them across a chair in the corner. He untied his tie and laid it across his coat. He took off his cufflinks and put them in his pocket, and rolled up his sleeves.

“Gentlemen, I’ve spent the night holding my brother, watching him cry, assuring him that it wouldn’t have been better for everyone if he’d died. I find myself rather angry and I think I need to work off some of that anger.”

Greg and John nodded and took off their coats. The three approached the men in the chairs. By the time they were done, all three were bloody. Mycroft, John, and Greg were satisfied and John and Mycroft stayed to watch Phillips and Hughes be punished. Greg left for work so as not to raise the suspicions of anyone at the Met. 

As Mycroft got dressed, he rubbed at his knuckles, which were bruised and torn. “Most satisfying,” he said to John. “I feel much better.”

“Me too,” John replied. 

“Want me to drop you off at two hundred and twenty-one B?”

“Thanks.”

 

John arrived at 221B by late morning. He’d stopped and bought ice cream for Sherlock. He could hear Mrs. Hudson talking in Sherlock’s room. He put the ice cream in the freezer and went into the bedroom.

“John,” Sherlock said, smiling. “I missed you.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I had to take Rosie to school and I had a few errands to run. I brought you some ice cream.”

“That sounds nice. Mrs. Hudson’s been giving me tea all morning.”

Dr. Roberts knocked on the door. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought we could get Sherlock’s exam over for the day.”

Mrs. Hudson went out to the kitchen after saying she’d start lunch.

John took off his jacket and shoes and sat down beside Sherlock, clutching his hand. Sam came in and removed Sherlock’s nappy, cleaning up the slight mess. He and John held Sherlock’s legs, as the doctor checked his stitches.

“It’s okay,” John said as Sherlock squeezed his hand tightly. John winced. 

“John, what happened to your hand?” Sherlock saw the skinned and bloody knuckles.

“Mycroft, Greg, and I visited the facility. Worked out a few frustrations.”

“You should be careful and have that looked after.”

“I’ll have a look later. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock hissed as the doctor’s finger penetrated him. His eyes started to lose focus and John knew he was flashing back to the warehouse.

“Stay with me, Sherlock,” he said. 

Sherlock’s eyes lost complete focus and he began to whimper. 

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John said. “Look at me.”

Sherlock’s eyes slowly turned to John’s. 

“Look at me. You’re safe. You’re with me. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes cleared and he looked at John.

“M’sorry, John,” he whispered.

Dr. Roberts finished his exam. “Everything seems better. I’m sorry I have to do this Sherlock, but we have to make sure there isn’t any more infection. Especially as you’re wearing the nappy and don’t seem to have much control over your bowel movements at the moment.”

Sherlock’s face turned scarlet, and he looked away from the doctor. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t react like this. Is this going to be permanent?”

“The nappy?”

Sherlock nodded, still looking away.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” John said. “It’s not your fault. You can’t help it.”

“Certainly, it’s not something to be ashamed of. I can’t tell yet. You’re still healing. Your bowel was damaged quite badly. It may heal fine. Also your sphincter is damaged. It seems to be healing. But whether complete control returns or not, it will take time to know for sure.”

Sam moved to put a new nappy on Sherlock and redress him.

“I’m going to give you some more antibiotics just to be safe,” Dr. Roberts said as he injected it into the IV. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Dr. Roberts and Sam left the room and John adjusted the blankets around Sherlock.

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes to find tears glistening there.

“What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I don’t want you to see me like this. I can’t even stop from messing myself. How can I expect you to be with me? How could you want to be with a man in nappies for the rest of his life?”

“It doesn’t matter. I love you. I want to be with you. I know you hate this. I know you don’t want to be like this. But you’re still you, Sherlock.”

“But . . .”

“Don’t worry about the future. You don’t know that this is permanent.”

“But it could be. How can I ask you to love me when I’m so weak and helpless?”

“You didn’t ask. I just love you. I think it’s time we had a little talk.” John lay down beside Sherlock and faced him. He reached out and took his hand. He started talking about his father and his sister, about Afghanistan and the army and his experiences with other soldiers. 

“I was so afraid of my father, Sherlock. He beat me if he even thought I looked at another boy or if I didn’t agree with him fast enough. I had to suppress everything. So I denied any attraction I felt to a boy. I overcompensated. I guess I really earned the name Three Continents Watson for all the women I slept with. But in Afghanistan, I knew I was far enough away. I knew that my father couldn’t find out. And it was explainable. I was lonely. I couldn’t sleep with any of the local women. It was only to relieve tension after patrols. And it wasn’t full sex.

“When I got home, I didn’t feel like having sex with anyone. I was too depressed. And then I met you. The moment I met you and you asked “Iraq or Afghanistan?”, I knew I was attracted to you. But I denied it to myself over and over. I told everyone I wasn’t gay. I was afraid. It was beaten into me to be afraid.” John reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. “I . . . I know I hurt you. I know every time I loudly declared I wasn’t gay, you had a hurt look on your face. I’m so, so sorry for that. I know it hurt you when I married Mary. I should never have done that. But I was so stubborn, so afraid,” John’s voice broke on the last word. “I hurt you over and over, but you still love me. So this is me telling you the truth. I, John Watson, am bisexual. And I love you, Sherlock Holmes, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I will be with you until the end of my days, so long as you want me. I swear on my life.”

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes swimming with tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that your father was like that. I’m sorry he made you lie to yourself. I won’t lie to you and say it didn’t hurt every time you said you weren’t gay. It did. You were the first person I ever loved. I was unsure and scared and didn’t know what to do with my feelings. I thought you didn’t want me. I pined over you. And the two years I was gone . . . it was thinking of you that kept me alive. There were times it would have been easier to just die. But you were in my head telling me to come home to you. But I came home and you were so angry. I thought I deserved it. And I wanted you to be happy. So I went overboard to make sure your wedding went well. I got you back with Mary because it would make you happy.

“But now . . . now I know you care. I know you love me . . . I can’t believe it. I . . . I don’t feel like I deserve it. Like I deserve you. I . . . I don’t have anything to offer you, John. I want to make you happy but how can I?”

“You’re you, Sherlock. I’ve loved you for so long. Anything you can give me is more than enough.”

“We wasted so much time, John. If only I could have given myself to you like I wanted. I wanted no one else but you to touch me. I wanted you to be my one and only lover,” he sobbed.

“I will be your only lover. I wish I could have avoided all of this. If it wasn’t for me, you’d never have been shot by Mary, you’d never have been kidnapped. If I’d just let myself realize how much I cared for you, I’d never have been with her.”

“We both have regrets. But . . . but we have each other now. I’ll try. I’ll really try to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’ll try to stop dwelling on what I’ve lost.”

“You aren’t feeling sorry for yourself. You have depression. But I promise I’ll help you. Whatever you need.”

“All I need is you, John. I wish I had more to offer you but, if you want me, I’ll always be yours.”

“You’ll always be what I want,” John whispered. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s forehead and then the tip of his nose.

He pulled back, looking deep into Sherlock’s eyes. He only saw love there. “Can . . . can I kiss you?”

Sherlock nodded.  
John gently touched his lips to Sherlock’s. Sherlock kissed back, clumsily, but with a passion that echoed John’s. John carefully licked Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock gasped and John’s tongue experimentally licked Sherlock’s teeth.

Sherlock quickly licked back and the kiss deepened. John pulled him even closer. Sherlock moaned low in his throat as his hands moved to John’s hair and he tangled his mangled fingers in his tresses.

John moaned as he broke the kiss. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Wow,” he said breathlessly. “That was a wonderful first kiss. I love you.”

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered. “Always. I really liked kissing you. I loved it.” 

“And I loved kissing you. I’m ready to take this as slow as you need.”

“But I know you have a high sex drive, John . . .”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. The only person I want is you. I love you. I don’t want you pushing yourself too fast. As long as I can hold you in my arms and kiss you, that’s all I need.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m yours, Sherlock. Never doubt that.”

Sherlock smiled at John, that smile that he only ever smiled for John. His eyes lit up, and John couldn’t help but smile back.

“John, lunch is ready,” Mrs. Hudson called.

“I’m going to go eat quick and then I’ll bring in your drink and some ice cream, okay?”

“Bring your lunch in. It’s alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. I know I can’t eat but there’s no reason you can’t. It’s not as if I’ve ever minded you eating when I didn’t before.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock smiled. John came back a few minutes later with a tray. He had Sherlock’s shake, a glass of water, two cups of tea, and a plate of bangers and mash. John helped Sherlock sit up against a pile of pillows. They ate and quietly talked. Sherlock leaned his hand against John’s shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered.

“So am I. Do you want your ice cream?”

“A big bowl.”

John returned with a big bowl of chocolate ice cream and slowly fed it to Sherlock.

“That was good. Thank you. I hope you saved some for Rosie.”

“I did. I think I’ll make dinner for us tonight, to thank Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft’s sending a car to pick Rosie up after school and bring her here. I wish we could move in right now.”

“When Rosie comes, Mrs. Hudson’s going to bring up some paint samples and wallpaper to redo the room upstairs.” 

John smiled. “She’ll be so excited.”

“Will she want new furniture? I could get Mycroft to send some catalogues.” 

“I think her furniture’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I think Mycroft likes the idea of having a niece. Wait until my parents find out about us. This is the closest they’ll ever come to having a grandchild. Expect Rosie and the baby to be showered with attention.”

“I’d like for them to have grandparents. My mum’s gone and I don’t want them around my dad. And your mum and dad are so great. And you don’t know, Sherlock. It’s possible that we’ll want another child one day. I think a child with curly black hair and those kaleidoscope eyes of yours would be wonderful. We could hire a surrogate, get you to ejaculate into a cup, and there you go. We’ll have a little Sherlock running around.”

“We’ll see, John. It’ll be a long time before we can think about something like that. We’ll have the baby and Rosie. It’ll be busy. I was thinking of something else though. My suggested I could think about getting a therapy dog.”

“For depression and PTSD?”

“Yes. I was going to talk to Dr. Cooper about it.”

“That might be a great idea.”

“Maybe. My promised he’d ask Sam and Brad to walk the dog so you wouldn’t have to. You’d only have to feed and water it, I promise.”

“It’s okay. It might be nice to have a pet.”

Mrs. Hudson joined them to watch telly and talk. They even played a game of cards. Rosie came home and all of them sat on the bed and started looking through the catalogues and paint samples. She picked a pale purple wallpaper with a border that had animals on it. She was very excited.

Dr. Cooper came around 4:30. “Sorry Sherlock. We had a bunch of new patients today and were short staffed. What’s all this?”

“Rosie’s picking out decorations and furniture for her room. They’ll be moved in by the end of the week,” Sherlock said.

“That’s really great,” Dr. Cooper said.

“Come on,” John said as he lifted Rosie up. “We’ll look at these in the sitting room.”

“Great,” Rosie said. “See ya, Uncle Sherlock.”

“See you later.”

John, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson left the room. 

Sherlock and Dr. Cooper talked. Sherlock told him about John and their talk.

“That sounds wonderful,” Dr. Cooper said. “I hope that it puts your doubts to rest.”

“I’ll probably always have doubts — not about John’s feelings but about whether I feel worthy of those feelings. I want John to be happy, and I’m afraid I can’t make him happy.”

“It’s still your depression and low self esteem. It’s the way you were treated when you were a child. You’ve been conditioned to believe you weren’t worthy of love or friendship. It’s natural for you to doubt that anyone cares, and if they do, you feel the need to push them away before they can hurt you. You’ve suffered a severe setback after the attack and the revelation of who was behind your kidnapping but we’ll work on it.”

“My brother stayed with me last night. We had a long talk. He suggested I could maybe get a therapy dog. When I was young, I had a dog. I talked to him a lot when anyone hurt me. I know I have a lot of friends and family, but if I had a dog, I could talk to it. It could calm me when I’m upset, when John’s not here.”

“It might indeed be good for you. I’ll look into it for you. There may be a waiting period.”

“My will get through the red tape.”

“Any particular breed?”

“A dog who’s child friendly, not really big. No Irish setters. Redbeard was an Irish setter. His death was quite traumatic for me. He died when I was young.”

“You didn’t get another dog?”

“It took me a long time to get over Redbeard’s death. My parents put me in therapy for awhile.” 

“So . . . let’s get to work on the self esteem exercises.”

When Dr. Cooper left, Dr. Roberts came in to check on Sherlock again. “Do you want a sedative tonight?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t stop me from having nightmares. It did relax me though.”

“I’ll leave one for you for tonight. If you leave the music on and have someone with you, it may help a lot.”

Sherlock didn’t know who he could ask. John would be at the hotel, and he didn’t feel like he should bother Mycroft again. Mrs. Hudson was here all day, and he didn’t think he should ask her to sleep in the same bed with him. Maybe Molly?

John came back in, licking his fingers. “Dinner’s coming along great. How was your session?”

“Okay. We’re back to working on self esteem again.”

“Good. What did he say about the dog?”

“He thought it was a good idea. He’s going to look in to getting one. I told him to make sure it’s a breed that gets along well with children.”

“Good idea. I’m sure Rosie will love having a dog here.”

“If she wants a cat, I don’t see a problem with that either. Though I think you should empty the litter box,” Sherlock said, smiling.

“Now Sherlock, you and Mycroft are paying enough for all this, don’t be spoiling Rosie.”

“Wait til my parents get here. You haven’t seen spoiling yet. I’m sure Mycroft’s already making arrangements for her and the baby to go to Oxford.”

“Good grief,” John said. “How the hell am I ever going to afford that?”

“Mycroft. This may be the closet he’ll get to nieces and nephews. And my parents will be over the moon.”

“I think we still have an option to have a little Sherlock at some point.”

“You really want that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. A little bit of you running around, telling us all how we lower the IQ of the whole neighbourhood. It’d be brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled. “It might at that. But it’ll be awhile, John. I’ve got six months to wait for HIV tests to make sure I’m clean. And you have a baby on the way.”

“We have a baby on the way. Mary isn’t going to have anything to do with raising this baby. It’ll be you and I.”

“What can I do, John? I can’t hold it or change a nappy or feed it.”

“You’ll love it, though. Won’t you?”

“Of course I will. And I love Rosie, and if we have another, I’ll love that baby too.”

“That’s all you need.”

“Quoting the Beatles to me, John?”

“Lennon and McCartney were right. It is all you need.”

“It’s nice to talk about the future, but there’s so much to think about right now. I need to be well before the baby comes. I don’t want to scare Rosie by waking up in the middle of the night screaming. I think having you here will help a lot. For right now, I think we need to take it a day at a time. I know I’m safe here with you. I have to heal some more, not just physically. My mind dwells too much on what I lost, on what they did. I want it to go away. But somehow knowing that Mary was behind it makes it so much worse. I’m so looking forward to starting a life with you. But, I’m afraid too. I’m afraid that you’ll get tired of looking after me. People fall out of love all the time . . .”

“Stop, Sherlock. I can’t promise you that we won’t ever disagree or argue. I can’t promise that our life will be perfect. But I promise no more secrets. No more holding things back. Will you promise me the same? We’ve already wasted so much time. I don’t want to waste anymore.”

“I promise, John. If I’m upset or angry, I’ll tell you. Most of it, I’m sure, will be my self esteem. But I promise to tell you.”

“Good,” John said, smiling. “I’d best go see to dinner before it burns.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock leaned into the kiss and contemplated it as John left the room. It felt so good to know that John loved him. To know that John was willing to accept everything about him. He just couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t deserve John. He wanted more than anything to hold John, to kiss him. He wanted to see him naked, his eyes dilated with lust. He wanted to feel his mouth all over his body. He wanted to taste every inch of John. But how could he? He wasn’t physically capable and mentally . . . well, mentally he didn’t know how far he could go. He’d kiss John now. He really enjoyed that. But he knew he couldn’t go farther for at least six months. He wouldn’t take the risk that he had HIV and could pass it to John. He knew that the hospital rapists had used condoms, but he still wouldn’t take the chance.

And what would John do? John had seen him naked. But when it came time, how could John desire him? When he took Sherlock’s clothes off, he’d see the scars, the lines carved into his chest, the marks that would forever remind him of his rapes. He’d see the missing fingers, the mutilated legs, the marks on his back, his scarred face. How could he want that? Sherlock most dreaded a look of pity on John’s face. It would be best if John never saw him like that — but John needed sex. How could he even go six months without it? Then Sherlock had an idea. He’d discuss it with John later. It might be the answer to all of their problems. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be satisfied, but John would, and that was all that counted.

He looked up as John and Rosie came in carrying their dinners and Sherlock’s shake. They sat and talked quietly while they ate. John had cooked what smelled like a wonderful casserole.

When Rosie started to yawn, John looked at Sherlock. “I think we better go and get this one to bed.”

“I’ll miss you, Uncle Sherlock. I can’t wait to move in here.”

“Listen, I wanted to ask you something. What do you think about kittens?”

“I love kittens.”

“What colour do you like best?”

“I like brown kittens with long hair.”

“That sounds nice. I like cats. I had a dog when I was little.”

“Did you?”

“An Irish setter. His name was Redbeard. He was my best friend.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died when I was nine. I was really sad for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, patting his arm.

He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

“Have you got someone coming to stay with you?”

“I thought I’d call Molly. Would you get my mobile?”

Sherlock called Molly and asked her to come.

She told him she’d love to come, but she’d have to leave early in the morning. 

John and Rosie left a few minutes later. Sherlock laid there in the quiet. Dr. Roberts had left and Mrs. Hudson and Brad were playing cards in the kitchen. Sherlock rolled over and looked out the window.

He was going to talk to Mycroft and get him to get a kitten for Rosie for the night they moved in. And he would tell John his plan.

Sherlock felt exhausted. He knew his body was weak. The pain was almost gone, but he hated having to lay there. He couldn’t go out to the sitting room because he couldn’t sit for long. And he didn’t want to take the chance that he would mess in his nappy. He felt so unlike himself. He wanted to get better for John. He had to start hiding his depression better. He had to try and disguise his self esteem problems. John deserved it.

And he’d talk to Mycroft about surgery. Maybe he could get his back fixed, the scars on his chest, and maybe his face.

He picked up his mobile and called Mycroft.

“Hello, Sherlock. Are you okay? Do you need something?”

“I hear you and Greg and John were busy this morning. Are your knuckles as skinned and bruised as John’s?”

“They are quite. But it was most satisfying.”

“Thank you for that, My. Thank you for caring enough to get some revenge on them.”

“Any time, Little Brother. Is there something else you wanted?”

“I need some help with a few things. I need a kitten.”

“A kitten?”

“I want a long-haired brown kitten for Friday. It’s for Rosie. Do you think you could do that?”

“I’ll have it done. Anything else?”

“I . . . I know that I told you not to arrange for surgery. But now that I’m with John, I want to.”

“What do you want done?”

“I want skin grafts to fix my back, and the scars on my chest. And . . . if it’s possible, I’d like to get the scars on my face fixed as much as I can. I know there’s nothing that can be done with my legs. I just want to hide as much as I can.”

“Surgery isn’t going to fix everything, Sherlock.”

“I know. But John deserves better than what I am now.”

“John wouldn’t want you putting yourself through pain just for him.”

“I know, but I want to look good for John or at least better than now. I know it’ll be a long time before we move on to an actual physical relationship, but I need to know that I can be better for him. I want to feel like I deserve him.”

“Of course you deserve him.”

“I don’t feel like I do. You know that. I want John to want me. I want him to see me and not be reminded of what they did to me.”

“I think you should talk this over with your therapist.”

“Mycroft, you wanted me to have the operations before. What’s changed?”

“You only want it for John, not for yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mycroft. Are you going to help me or do you want me to wear the marks that they left on me? Do you want Mary to win?”

“Don’t try that on me.”

“You only administer my trust fund because I never wanted to but I can pay for this myself. I just want you to find the best doctor available. I don’t need your permission or your approval. Please just do this for me.”

Mycroft was quiet for a few seconds. “Alright. But you have to heal first. Your body’s been through so much in such a small amount of time.”

“It has to be within six month’s time.”

“I’ll discuss this with the best doctor I can find.”

Sherlock’s voice softened. “Thank you, My.”

“Do you want me to come and spend the night with you?”

“Molly’s coming.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. I’m just really tired. But I feel better knowing that John cares.”

“Rest, Sherlock. You’ve earned it. You’ve been through so much. And you’re starting on a new path in your life. I’m happy for you that you have someone now. I want you to be happy, Little Brother.”

“Thank you, My.”

“Good night.”

“Night.”

Sherlock was happy that Mycroft had agreed to the surgery. He wanted to change what he could for John. Tomorrow he would think about what he could do to fix his mind.

He heard the lift engage. He heard Molly greet everyone before she came in the room, as always a ball of kinetic energy.

“Hi Sherlock. How are you?”

“Tired. The last few days have been really hard. But they’ve been good too.”

“I’m glad. I’m so happy that you’re finally home. We missed you.”

“I missed you, too. How are you?”

“Very good. Seeing someone now. Busy at work.”

“Any interesting cases?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. 

“We had a burn case a few weeks ago with fourth degree burns over 80% of his body.”

“And I missed it,” Sherlock said.

Molly put down the bag she had and opened it. “That’s why I brought the files. There’s also two other cases. One was someone poisoned. I’ll let you look and tell me by what. And another case where the victim had been shot, stabbed, poisoned, and drowned.”

“Like Rasputin.”

“Exactly. That’s what we were calling him in the morgue. Why don’t I lie down beside you, and we’ll go through them together.”

“Did you bring your pyjamas? Usually John and Mycroft sleep in bed with me. Would you do the same?”

“Are you sure?”

“If you’re okay with it.”

“Alright. I’ll be right back.” Molly disappeared into the loo, returning a few minutes later in a pair of flannel pyjamas and fuzzy socks. She got under the covers and brought out the first file. They looked through it and talked about each of the cases. Sherlock guessed the poison for the second case and marvelled at the third case.

When he was repeatedly yawning, Molly closed the files. “I think it’s time for bed.”

“Brad has my meds.”

Molly got up and went to get Brad, who brought in his pills and his sedative. He turned the music on and the night light and shut the door on the way out. 

“Thank you for coming. Thank you for bringing the files for me. I’ve missed working on cases.”

“Oh you’re welcome. I’ll bring by some more. I’m sure Greg can bring you cold cases.”

“I don’t know. I can’t really deduce anymore. My mind palace isn’t really there anymore. I can’t really remember much.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to look.”

“I suppose not. John and I are going to be living together so he can help me. Maybe I can get some of it back.”

“When’s he moving in?”

“He and Rosie will be here on Friday. I’m so looking forward to it. We had a good talk, and I know how much he loves me now.”

Molly smiled widely. “That’s fantastic.” She hugged Sherlock. “I’m so happy for both of you. I’m so excited. I’ll tell you a secret. The person I’m dating . . . is Greg.”

“Who’s Greg?” he said, smiling.

“Oh, you,” she said laughing and batting at his hands.

“I’m happy for you, Molly. And I’m happy for Greg too. You’ll be much better for him than his ex-wife. And he deserves it. He deserves you. And you deserve him. I think you’ll be really happy together.”

“We are. We are.”

“Does he know you’re pregnant?”

“Sherlock! I just found out myself yesterday. I haven’t told him yet. We’re going to lunch tomorrow and I’ll tell him then. I thought you said you couldn’t deduce anymore.”

“Maybe a bit. I’m happy for you. I am. And you and Greg will be fantastic parents. Look how he looked after me.”

“Do you think so?”

“I think you’ll be fantastic. And Greg was meant to be a dad.” Sherlock bent over and kissed Molly on the forehead. “I couldn’t be happier for the two of you.”

Molly had tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I have to warn you. I have nightmares. I’ll probably wake you.”

“It’s okay. I’m here for you.”

“And I appreciate it.”

They talked for a bit before Sherlock fell asleep mid-sentence.

He made it through until 3:30 when he dreamed about him and John sleeping together. John started to undress him. When he uncovered the scars on Sherlock’s chest, he stopped. He counted them out one by one and then said, “You’re missing two.” He reached into the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a knife. He stabbed into Sherlock’s chest and carved two more lines.

“Do you honestly think I’d really sleep with you? You’re ugly and stupid. You’re a used up piece of garbage. You’re dirty and disgusting. Do you really think I’d stick my cock into your arse after seven other men did?”

Sherlock woke with a start, tears streaming down his face as he cried out, “John, no!”

Molly turned on the light. “What’s wrong? Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock was breathing heavily, trying to draw in enough air as he sobbed.

“Take slow breaths,” she said, sitting up.

Sherlock tried.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

“John . . . John,” he called.

“John isn’t here, Sherlock.”

“I need to know . . . I . . . I need to know. I need to talk to John, please.” The pain in Sherlock’s eye made Molly wince.

“Alright. Alright. What hotel is he staying at?”

“The . . . the number’s on my mobile.”

Molly picked up Sherlock’s mobile and looked for the number. “Hello, I need to speak to one of your guests. His name is John Watson. It’s very urgent.”

“Hello?” she heard a sleepy voice say.

“Here, Sherlock. It’s John.”

Sherlock took the mobile. “J . . . J . . . John? Is it you?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I . . . I had a nightmare. It was awful. I . . . I . . . I need to know, John.”

“What do you need to know?”

“I dreamed we were making love for the first time. And you undressed me. When you saw the scars on my chest, you said there weren’t enough and you carved two more in my chest then laughed and told me you’d never sleep with me. That I was dirty and used and disgusting and ugly and stupid.” Sherlock was sobbing again. “Do you really think that?” 

“Of course I don’t. I’d never think that. Never. I love you, Sherlock.”

“I need you, John. I need to know you love me.”

“I do love you, sweetheart. Always. Only you.”

“I know you can’t come now. Don’t wake Rosie up. I’m sorry I woke you. I . . . I know I’m being weak and stupid.”

“No, love. You aren’t. Can you try and get some sleep? I promise I’ll be there as soon as I drop Rosie at school. Can you be brave for me? For just a few hours?”

“I . . . I will. For you.”

“Is Molly there?”

“Yes.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Alright. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Sherlock handed the mobile to Molly.

“Molly, he’s really upset. Do you think you could hold him? I’ll be there as soon as I get Rosie to school.”

“Alright. Good night, John.”

Molly hung up. She turned off the light and reached out to wipe the tears off of Sherlock’s face. “It’s okay. It’s okay. John loves you.”

“I . . . I know. I’m sorry. I’m . . . so sorry for waking you. You have to go to work. And you’re pregnant. I shouldn’t upset you. I’m so useless. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. You’re upset because of a nightmare. It’s alright. Can I hold you?”

Sherlock nodded and scooted over to lay his head on Molly’s shoulder. She held him tight.

“Shhh. It’s okay. I promise. Go to sleep, Sherlock. You’re safe and warm and you’re so loved.” She kissed his forehead. “Listen to the music. Don’t think. Just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

She slowly started to hum along with the music. Sherlock was shaking but gradually he started to relax and went to sleep. Molly was worried about him but soon followed him to sleep.

When Sherlock woke up, he heard someone in the shower. Molly was gone. He realized what he’d done and felt awful about it. He looked at the clock. It was 6:30 and the light was starting to come through the window. The pain was just starting to make itself felt again. And he welcomed it. He deserved it for doubting John, for disturbing Molly, for hurting other people.

“Sherlock,” he heard from the door.

“Good morning, Molly. I . . . I’m so sorry. I . . .”

“Stop right there. You had a nightmare. You were scared. Sherlock, you know you can’t control your emotions. No one’s angry. I’m certainly not. Please don’t worry. Are you going to be okay? I have to leave soon. Brad’s still here and Sam will be here soon. Do you want me to see if Mrs. Hudson can come stay with you until John gets here?”

“No. I don’t want to bother anyone. Not for my foolishness. I’ve got to learn to be strong. I can’t be like this anymore.”

“You’re still recovering. It’s been so harrowing for you. So much has happened in such a short time. I’d be a mess right now if it was me. We’re all so proud of you. You’ve been so strong. Don’t bottle everything up. You have a right to be upset. A right to be angry and sad and depressed and vulnerable.”

“But I don’t want to be like that.”

“It’s a process. There are stages. You’re grieving the loss of the Sherlock you were. There’s denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The five stages of grief or the Kubler-Moss model. You’re moving through them. It’s going to take as long as it takes. Everyone is different. But you’ve got people to help you. Your brother, your parents, your friends, and John. And you’re working with a psychiatrist. You’re being proactive, and you’re surrounded by love. That’s what’s important. You have all the support you need. Please. Please be strong enough to ask for it.”

Sherlock looked up at her. She was right. He knew it. And he had been going through those stages. “I don’t know if I want to finish this. I don’t know that I want to accept that I’m like this. I don’t want to accept that I’m helpless, that I’ll never be able to walk or use my hands or my mind again. Or that I’m so scarred. Or that I have to depend on everyone else for everything. I hate all of this, Molly. I want to be a partner to John, not a burden. I want to help him with Rosie and the baby. He’s talking about wanting to hire a surrogate to have my baby. He says he wants a little Sherlock around. How can I have a child of my own when I can’t help with it? I would like to have a child with John. I feel like I’ve lost everything at just the time that I got John. He’s everything I ever wanted and more. But I don’t have anything to give him.”

“He doesn’t think so. He loves you, Sherlock. He loves you so much.”

“I know he does. I just don’t know why.”

“Because you’re you. Don’t worry, Sherlock. Please don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Molly. Thank you for staying with me. Thank you for bringing the files. I hope you have a good lunch with Greg. I know he’s going to be so happy.”

She smiled. “I hope so.” She bent down and kissed his cheek. “If you need anything, just call us.”

“I will. Congratulations again about the baby.”

Molly smiled at him as she gathered her things together.

When she left, Sherlock asked Brad to give him a bath. Dr. Roberts would soon be there. He struggled to control his emotions. The nightmare still haunted him.

When Brad had redressed him and given him his medication, he asked to be allowed to sit on the sofa for awhile. He wanted to be able to look out the window again and watch people on their way to work.

He remembered doing the same thing when he first came home from the hospital, when he told John that he loved him. He watched the cars and people go by. He longed to put on his Belstaff, run downstairs and hail a cab to go off on another case. He looked over at the coat hook. The Belstaff wasn’t there anymore. It had been packed away with his scarf, his violin, his lab equipment, and his case files. 

He looked down again at the people on the street. He’d gladly trade bodies with any of them. There was a tall man with curly black hair that walked by, and Sherlock felt a pang of regret. If he could only have a strong, healthy body like that — for John. He sat there brooding, making wishes he knew would never come true.

Dr. Roberts arrived and checked him over, giving him the injection of the pain medication. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I had a rather upsetting nightmare last night.”

“Were you alone?”

“No. My friend Molly was here. She helped me. And I called John. He’ll be here as soon as he gets his daughter to school.”

“I’m glad you weren’t alone. Your blood pressure is just a tiny bit above normal. That would explain it.” He sat down across from Sherlock. “You seem upset today. Do you want me to call Dr. Cooper?”

“No. He’ll be here anyway. I . . . I just want to see John.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Let me get it for you.”

Dr. Roberts helped him with his shake. “You’re doing well. You’re healing quite well.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I can get any mobility back at all? Is there any way to fix my legs or my hands?”

“I don’t believe so. Some of the bones in your feet were pulverized. We can’t replace the missing fingers. There’ve been a few successful transplantations, but there’re no guarantees. The nerves are extremely damaged in your arms. The nerves can regenerate but it will take years for them to completely rejuvenate and, even then, you won’t have full articulation. Nerves grow about an inch a month.” 

Sherlock looked down into his lap. “I understand,” he whispered.

“I’ve asked my brother to arrange for some surgery. Some skin grafts to fix as much of the damage on my back and chest and maybe my face, well as much as possible. Do you think they may be able to put implants of some sort in my legs so they don’t look so bad?”

“It might be possible. All of those procedures will be very painful. Your body’s already gone through a lot. Do you really want to put yourself through that?”

“Yes. It’s not a vanity thing. I . . . I just want to hide the damage as much as I can. I don’t want people looking at me with disgust or pity. I want to feel at least a bit better about myself. My friend told me I was mourning the loss of who I was. And she’s right. I don’t want to accept what’s happened to me. I don’t want to think that I’ll never walk or use my hands or my mind, but I have to. But there are things that can be fixed or at least made better. I have to move on with my life and accept what little life has to offer me now.”

“It’s hard. So much was taken from you. If it had been a car accident or something like that it probably would have been easier to accept. But this was a deliberate act meant to harm you. That makes it worse. And I know acceptance feels like giving up. I know it feels like you’ve given up any hope. But it’s not. There are advances being made every day in medicine. There may be a way to regrow the bones in your feet, your fingers, the damage to your skin, even repair the brain damage. So you should keep hoping. Don’t give up. Fixing what you can is a good step. But it should be because you want it. Not for anyone else.”

“I need to do this. My brother has agreed. He’s looking for the best doctors. I want to do it for myself. It will give me at least a little hope.”

Dr. Roberts nodded and smiled. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes.”

After his cup, he decided, though sitting up for so long was starting to make him a bit dizzy, to stay out there until John came. He wanted to appear as strong as he could for John.

At about 8:30, he heard the lift engage. A very concerned John stepped out of it and immediately moved to Sherlock’s side.

“Are you alright?” he asked as he knelt down and pulled Sherlock into his arms.

“Better,” Sherlock whispered as he laid his head against John’s shoulder. “Now that you’re here.”

“It’s alright, love. I’m here now. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you last night.”

“I knew you’d be here. And it’s just a few more days. I’m so sorry that I woke you. The nightmare was so real. It hurt so much. I just needed to hear your voice. I needed to know that you still loved me.”

John pulled away and cupped his face gently in his hands. “I’ll always love you. Always.”

“I just can’t get the look you had on your face out of my mind. You were so disgusted by my body. You told me that I was disgusting, and you’d never stick your cock in something so used up.” Tears sprang to Sherlock’s eyes, and he started to tremble.

“Hey, hey. I would never say that to you. I love all of you, every bit.” 

“B . . . but how? Why?”

“Because you’re my Sherlock. You always will be.”

“The scars on my chest don’t bother you?”

“Not that way. They’re part of you. They disturb me because I know that you got them from those animals that hurt you so badly.”

“I . . . I made a decision yesterday. I had a talk with Mycroft and he agreed. I’ve talked with Molly and with Dr. Roberts. Molly told me I’ve been grieving for the loss of the man I used to be. And I think she’s right. I don’t want to accept what happened. I don’t want to believe I’ll never walk or use my hands or be able to think properly again. Dr. Roberts said acceptance is good, but I also can’t lose hope that someday I might walk or use my hands or be myself.”

“He’s right about that. I know it hurts to have to accept this, Sherlock. But once you do, the real healing can start.”

“I want to heal, John. I want to feel worthy of you. I don’t now.”

“That’s the depression talking.”

“Maybe. But it’s how I feel, John. It’s something I’m working on, but it will take awhile. I’ve felt unworthy of friendship and love almost all of my life. It’s going to take more time then what I’ve gone through in therapy already to let go of this.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to do something to try and help myself. My wanted me to get plastic surgery and I refused. But if I want to keep hope, I need to fix what I can. So I’ve asked Mycroft to find the best plastic surgeon he can. I want someone to try and fix my back, my chest, my face. I talked to Dr. Roberts that maybe I can get implants in my legs so they’ll look normal. There isn’t anything I can do now to walk or use my hands or fix my mind, but I can at least do this.”

“Are you sure this is what you want? It’ll be a lot of pain.”

“I’m no stranger to pain, John.”

“You aren’t doing this for me are you?”

“I’d be lying if I said you had nothing at all to do with it. I want to look as good as I can for you. I don’t want you to look at me the way you did in my dream. But it’s for me. I want to get as well as I can. I want to try my hardest to put this behind me. I want to be happy, John. I want the pain to go away. As much as possible anyway.”

“I’m glad that you want to be better. I’m glad that you want to be happy, but you needn’t worry about my reaction to seeing you.” John reached out to him and touched his chest. “I know what’s there. It doesn’t make me want you any less. I do want you. I want you to lie in my arms. I want to kiss you. And, when we’re both ready, I want to make love with you. And it doesn’t matter if you have the plastic surgery or not. Not to me. I just want you to be happy.”

Sherlock touched John’s hand. “I am happy, when I’m with you. And, when I work more with Dr. Cooper, maybe I can start being happy even more. But I do want the surgery. I want it so that I can feel better about me. I just want to fix the things I can.”

John smiled at him and nodded. “Alright. I’ll just be happy when we’re all moved in and I can be with you all the time.”

“Me too. But it’s only two more nights. I feel safer with you here.”

“Why don’t we move in anyway? I can move our stuff here. Rosie can sleep on the sofa.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll ask here when she comes from school, but I can’t imagine she’d say no.”

Sherlock smiled. “I don’t have a pool.”

“No, but you’re here and she loves you. And Mrs. Hudson.” 

“I hope it’ll be okay with her. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” John pulled Sherlock into his arms.

John stood up a few minutes later. “Tea?”

“Love some.”

He picked Sherlock up and sat him on the sofa before joining him. They drank their tea, and John ate the toast he’d made himself.

Mrs. Hudson joined them, though Dr. Roberts suggested they retire to the bedroom as Sherlock shouldn’t sit up much longer. As they settled in the bedroom, Mrs. Hudson told them the afghan she was knitting was to cover Sherlock’s legs. He told Mrs. Hudson about the surgery and how John might be moving in that day.

They laughed and drank tea and played games. Mycroft called and promised to have John and Rosie’s things moved there that night if Rosie agreed. He was glad that Sherlock would have John there. He’d been in contact with the best surgeons in the world, and the best would be available when he needed him. But, given the injuries Sherlock had suffered, he suggested at least four months before he start. He suggested the back surgery first. It would take months for the final surgery to be completed.

Sherlock was excited. He wanted this. He wanted to be better. He knew that cosmetic changes wouldn’t change what had happened to him. Those memories, those feelings would never completely go away — but perhaps he could control them. Push them down. He couldn’t have them ruining his life. Not now that John loved him. Mary had hurt him in just exactly the right way. She’d hurt him physically and mentally to be sure, but she’d done even worse: she’d taken away his confidence, his belief in himself, every ability he’d prided himself on, and had humiliated him. She’d played on his low self esteem and his depression to make it even worse.

But he wasn’t going to let her win. No. She had lost. Sherlock had lost a lot, but he had John. And for that, he’d have given his whole life. He looked at John, who was laughing at something Mrs. Hudson said, and his heart surged with love.

Tears came into his eyes and a big smile.

“What’s wrong?” John said, touching his face.

“Nothing,” Sherlock whispered. “I . . . It’s just that I love you so much. And having you here makes me so happy.”

John smiled at him. “It makes me happy too.” He touched his forehead to Sherlock’s.

Mrs. Hudson was smiling widely. “My boys,” she said. “It makes me so happy to know that the two of you have finally realized how much you love each other.”

“It took long enough,” Sherlock said.

“Too long,” John replied.

After lunch, Dr. Roberts performed his daily exam of Sherlock. It still bothered Sherlock. He felt invaded and flashed back to the rapes. But John would pull him back and he needed only to look into those beautiful, concerned eyes and he was there, in his bedroom at 221B. 

“I love you. Stay with me,” John whispered as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“Always,” Sherlock whispered back.

When Dr. Cooper arrived, Sherlock was ready to talk. He went through the self esteem exercises and told Dr. Cooper about Molly’s theory about him going through grief at losing his old self.

Dr. Cooper agreed.

Sherlock told him about the surgeries he’d arranged. “I want to do something productive.”

“That’s good. You should be sure. They’ll very painful. And you’ve already gone through so much.”

“I know. But I don’t want this to define my life. If I can minimize some of it, maybe I can feel better.”

“Or are you doing it for John?”

“Yes. In some ways. I want to feel worthy of him. I don’t now. But it’s only part of it. I do want to get rid of them. I’ll always be reminded every time I look at my hands or at my wheelchair, but I think this will help, at least a bit.”

Dr. Cooper nodded. “As long as you aren’t expecting miracles. There’ll still be scars; they’ll just be lessened not taken away entirely.”

“I know. I just . . . I had a dream after I decided this.” He quickly told Dr. Cooper about the dream. “I know John would never say those things. But I don’t want John to be reminded every time we make love that I was raped so many times. I don’t want to be reminded either. It lives in my head all the time. I don’t want to look down and see it all the time.”

“I can understand that.”

“Have you looked into getting a service dog?”

“Yes, I have. It may take a bit of time but we can get you a dog to help you with the depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I’ve chosen a small dog — a terrier mixed breed. It’s just a puppy now, but they’ll bring it around to work with you as part of the training.”

“That’s great. It’ll have to get used to a cat, though. I’m giving Rosie a kitten as a moving in present.”

“That can be part of the training. I’ll let your brother know about it, shall I?”

“Sure.”

The rest of the hour, they worked hard. Sherlock felt he was making a little progress but wasn’t satisfied.

“You can’t change everything overnight, Sherlock.”

“I know. It’s just so frustrating. John’s here and I want to be better for him. He says he’ll never leave me, but I don’t want him staying because he feels he has to.”

“That’s your self esteem problem talking. He loves you. And you’ve never believed that you deserve to be loved, especially now. It’s okay to feel self conscious but not to the point where you’re doubting everything and everyone. I want you to do those exercises as many times as you can, alright?”

“I will. I’ll try. It’s just . . . it’s not easy. I can’t help feeling that no matter what I do, everyone will either leave me or hurt me. It’s been a pattern in my life.”

“Until now. You have friends who haven’t abandoned you. Your parents and Mycroft may have in the past, but they’ve come back. John cares deeply about you.”

“Yes. My friends have never left, but I’m so afraid they will. Now that I’m of no use.”

“You are of use. They care about you.”

“But is that enough? I still feel like I’m a burden to all of them.”

“You’re still getting over a series of enormous traumas. Just one of them would have broken most people. But you’re here. You’re home. You’re safe. You have friends, family, and a boyfriend. You have people who would do anything to protect you. You’re a very strong man. But all of us need help. Sometimes it may seem that rejecting help, trying to be strong and handle everything yourself —sometimes it takes great strength to accept help.”

“I just don’t want to be a problem to anyone.”

“After everything you’ve suffered and sacrificed, you deserve to be taken care of. You’ve given up so much for your friends and family. You’ve died for them. You lost your fingers, your ability to walk, and got brain damage to stop the same happening to your brother or John or Molly or Greg. You saved their lives, knowing what would happen to you, while you were already in pain, your back torn to pieces.

“You’ve done so much for them. Let them help you.”

Sherlock thought. “I would never ask them to do anything like that. I didn’t do it so they’d help me or do things to pay me back. I did it because I care about them and would do anything to protect them.”

“Of course. But you have to know how grateful they are to you. They care about you too.”

“I just find it hard to believe that they would care for me so much.”

“I know. You’re working on it. And part of it is to accept what they have to offer you.”

Sherlock nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Work on it. Don’t reject help.”

“I don’t. It just makes me feel a bit uncomfortable sometimes. I like it that Mrs. Hudson spends time up here. I like when John’s here. I want to get out of the flat, but I’m afraid. I don’t want people staring at me. Or making fun of me. I hate seeing the world through other people’s eyes, through newspapers and the telly.”

“You can’t stay here the rest of your life. I know you don’t want to be made fun of or stared at. But you don’t know that’s what will happen. You can go out to dinner or to a movie.”

“If I go to dinner, people will stare at me when John feeds me.”

“Some people are rude. You know that. But you can’t let them rule your life.”

“John deserves to go out. He goes to the pub sometimes with Lestrade. Maybe we could go late at night to Angelo’s. I’m sure Angelo would stay open a little later.”

“At first, maybe. But you should go out at regular times. People with different abilities live full lives. And you can to.”

“John’s talking about us having a child together. He says he wants a little boy with curly black hair running around.”

“Now?”

“No. Not for awhile. After the baby’s born. A few years from now. I don’t know how he expects to handle three children and me.”

“You’ll help raise the children as well.”

“How? I can’t do anything for them. I can’t feed them, dress them, put them to bed. I’d be a pretty awful father. But John doesn’t seem to think so.”

“You’ll love them, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.”

“Then that’s what they need from you. They’ll need to know you love them and that you love John. That’s the most important thing that kids need.”

“Rosie knows that John loves me and that I love him. But she thinks her mother’s in a mental health facility. She figured out that her mother did this to me.” 

“You’ll have to take your time. If you want me to talk to all three of you, I could. I agree that she’s too young to know all of the details of what Mary did to you.”

“I’ll talk it over with John.”

When Dr. Cooper left, Sherlock felt a bit better. John brought him in a cup of tea and they lay together.

“Dr. Cooper said he could meet with you and me and Rosie when we want to tell her more about us.”

“That’d be great. I’ve been thinking about it, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it.”

“I . . . I had something I wanted to tell you.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“It’s about us. It’s going to be some time before we can be a real couple . . .”

“Do you mean sex? Sherlock, we love each other. We are a real couple.”

“Maybe, but I know that I certainly want you and I hope you want me too.”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“And it’s going to be awhile before I’m ready, both physically and emotionally. And I don’t want to take a chance until after the six month HIV test comes back. That’s a long time, and I know that you love sex. I . . . I want it to be with me, but I can’t ask you to wait for something that might take me a long time to be ready for. So, I want you to feel free to sleep with whomever you wish until I’m ready. I won’t be angry or feel bad about it. I just want you to be happy. I want you to be satisfied. I love you so much. I just want everything for you.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “I need to know you’re happy.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John said, touching Sherlock’s face. “I know that you want what’s best for me. I know that you love me. But I chose you. I don’t want anyone else. I’ll never want anyone else.”

“B . . . but what if I can’t? What if I can’t let you penetrate me?”

“There’s more than one way to have sex, Sherlock.”

“I . . . I just want you to be satisfied. I don’t want you to get frustrated and . . . and . . .”

“And what?”

Sherlock looked away from John. “I . . . I’m afraid. I’m so frightened that you’ll get frustrated and leave. And I wouldn’t blame you,” Sherlock whispered.

“Look at me. Look at me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at John, his face wet with tears. John moved closer and kissed his cheeks, tasting the salty tears. “Oh, love. I love you. I’ll always love you. I know now that, since I met you, I’d never love anyone else. I only want you. I don’t want to sleep with some random woman. I want you to be the only man I ever have sex with. If I want sex, I do have a hand, you know. And a beautiful boyfriend to think about when I’m doing it.” He smiled at Sherlock. “I know you offered because you love me so I’m not angry. Please know that. I’m yours, always.”

Sherlock started to sob. “John, I . . . I wanted to offer. I don’t deserve you.”

“Hush now. It’ll be fine. You’re mine and I’m yours. Forever.” He pulled Sherlock to him and held him until he stopped crying. 

“I want to be yours. I do. In every way.”

“You will. Someday. But not before you’re absolutely ready. And if we can’t do more than kiss, that’ll be enough. I just want to be with you. You’re the only one in this whole world that I will ever trust with my heart. And, if you’ll let me, I promise I will protect your heart with my life.”

Sherlock looked up, surprised, at John. “You’ve had my heart since Stamford brought you into the lab. It’s a bit tattered, but it’s yours.”

“You’ve tried so hard over the years to protect me. You’ve suffered so much. And you’ve never asked for anything in return. All you’ve suffered for me . . .”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what happened to me at all. All that mattered was that you were safe and happy. It would do any of it, any of it, in a heartbeat to keep you safe.”

“And that’s why you are the bravest, most loving person I’ve ever known and why I feel like the luckiest man in the world that I have the heart of the best man I’ve ever known.” John kissed Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson came in so they could watch the afternoon shows. 

When Rosie was brought back from school by Mycroft’s men, she came running into the bedroom and bounced on the bed. “Papa! Uncle Sherlock!” She kissed both of them and went over to kiss Mrs. Hudson on the cheek.

“Want a lunch?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ve got some biscuits and chocolate milk if you’d like.”

“Can I, Papa?”

“Go ahead,” John said smiling. As she and Mrs. Hudson disappeared around the corner, John laughed. “I wish I had her energy.”

“I didn’t know we had chocolate milk,” Sherlock said.

John smiled. “Would you like some?”

“Please.”

John kissed Sherlock on the forehead and went to get the chocolate milk.

Mrs. Hudson returned as John left. She smiled at Sherlock. “You and John are great together, you know.”

“I can’t believe that he loves me sometimes. It all feels like a dream. I’m afraid I’m going to wake up and he’ll realize that he can do so much better than me, that he’ll see me for the broken man that I am.”

“You aren’t broken, Sherlock.”

“I feel like I am. I don’t feel like I have anything to offer anyone, let alone John. He used to love going out on cases with me. Now we can’t at all. I’m afraid he’ll get bored with me, just sitting like a lump.”

“If he loves you, it’s you he cares about, not cases.”

“I don’t think I’m enough for him. I want to be, but I don’t know.”

“Of course, you’re enough,” John said from the door. “You’re what I want. You’re all that I want. All I’ll ever want.”

Sherlock looked at him and smiled, the worry replaced by a mask. John knew Sherlock entirely too well. He knew that Sherlock was uncertain, that his self esteem was still too fragile to allow him to fully believe in himself yet.

John sat down beside him and helped him drink his chocolate milk.

“If I keep on with this — ice cream and chocolate milk, I’ll be as fat as Mycroft soon.”

John laughed. “Your brother isn’t fat. And you’re far too skinny.”

“Well, if I could eat . . .”

“You’ve got over two weeks to go. I am worried you’re going to lose more weight.”

“I’m not getting any exercise.”

“You should be. How about we start? We can exercise your arms, maybe do a few stomach crunches. After you heal up, sit ups. And we can move your legs around to keep them from atrophying.”

“Okay. That sounds good. I don’t want to get out of shape. If someday, they can fix me, I want to be ready.”

“Don’t say fixed. It makes you sound like you’re broken. You aren’t broken.”

“Of course, I am. These don’t work,” he pointed to his legs. “And these.” He waved his hands in the air. “Or this.” He pointed to his head. “Maybe someday they’ll be able to fix me so I can walk and use my hands and think again.”

“Sherlock, don’t talk about yourself like that. And don’t live on too many expectations. It’s easy to do. I know. Yes, keep some hope but don’t stake everything on it. Acceptance is always the best. Accept that you may be like this for all your life. It’ll help you. It’ll make it easier.”

“I don’t want it to be easier,” Sherlock said. “I want to fight.”

“Fight what?”

“Fight to get my life back. I don’t want to be like this.”

“Of course you do. But Sherlock, reality is reality. Someday is someday. You can’t live in the past or in the future. You have to live now. Take what you have and build on it. You’ve got me. You’ve got friends and family. Learn to live with what you have. Accept what you don’t. You can’t live in a world of regrets and false hope, of if onlys and maybe somedays and what ifs.”

Sherlock looked at him before dropping his eyes. “I . . . I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t be talking like this. I know I’m worthless now. I have to accept it.”

“No, you aren’t. Stop it,” John said. “That’s not what I meant. Live in the now is all I’m saying. Depression is essentially obsessing over the past and what happened. And worrying about the future, that’s anxiety. But learning to live in the now, accepting what can be changed and what can’t and to be able to tell which is which.”

“Like the AA prayer?” Sherlock asked.

“It works. Live for today. Love for today. It just hurts to see you doing this to yourself.”

“That’s all I do. I hurt people. I don’t want to but I just keep hurting everyone. Every decision I make is wrong. Everything I say is wrong. I’m sorry.” Sherlock turned over onto his side, his shoulders hunched over into himself, his arms wrapped around himself. His silent crying was somehow worse than if he’d been sobbing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” He started rocking back and forth.

John sat up, concerned. “Sherlock, please. It’s alright. Please don’t do this. You’re not wrong all the time.”

Sherlock continued to cry, his shoulders heaving. “I won’t talk about getting better anymore.”

“It’s alright. It’s alright, love. You can talk about whatever you want.”

Sherlock began to hum low in his throat. 

“Stop it. Stop it, Sherlock. Look at me.”

Sherlock continued to rock and hum.

John reached out and gathered Sherlock into his arms. “Stop it. You’re here with me. You’re home and safe. It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re with me.” 

John could feel Sherlock shaking. He looked into Sherlock’s face. His eye was blank, almost empty. The hum was low and vibrating. He seemed lost. Lost inside his own mind.

“Sherlock, please. You’re scaring me now. Please wake up. Please.”

Dr. Roberts was at the kitchen table when John called for him.

“What’s wrong?” he said, as he came through the door.

“Something’s wrong. He’s gone into his head and won’t come out. He got upset.”

“Let me look at him.”

John laid Sherlock flat on the bed. Dr. Roberts shone a light in his eye. “Pupil is responsive. I think he’s overwhelmed. This is a way to cope. Let me give him a sedative. If he sleeps for awhile, he may wake up alright.”

“If not?”

“We’ll try something else.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a plan. Just hoping a sleep will snap him out of it.”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Can’t we just try to wake him up?”

“What . . . shake him, slap his face? Given his past, I don’t think that would be helpful.”

“You’re probably right. Alright, let’s try it.”

Dr. Roberts inserted a needle into Sherlock’s IV. A few minutes later, his eyes fluttered closed and the humming, rocking, and shaking stopped.

Mrs. Hudson came in with Rosie. They’d been downstairs.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Sherlock had a bit of a setback, but I think he’ll be fine,” John said. “He’s been sedated.”

“Oh dear. Is there anything I can do?”

“Maybe you and Rosie could play a game.”

Dr. Roberts and John stayed with Sherlock, monitoring his condition.

When he woke a few hours later, Sherlock’s eye was hazy, but he looked at John.

“How are you feeling?” John asked, smiling.

“Thirsty,” he whispered.

Dr. Roberts went to get him some water.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry. I know I’m a disappointment. I know I shouldn’t dwell so much on the past. I know I’m a freak and a sociopath. If I just accept it, then the depression will go away,” he whispered.

“No. You aren’t. You’re brave and smart and beautiful. You’re Sherlock Holmes, the best man I’ve ever known.” He gently touched Sherlock’s face. “And I love you.”

“Oh John. Why can’t I get better? I want to be better for you. You don’t need me a weepy, useless mess. You need me to help you raise Rosie and the baby. You need me to be a partner, not a burden.”

“You’ll never be a burden. You can’t make the abuse you suffered all of your life go away in a little while. You have to let yourself heal.”

“I’ve taken long enough to heal. I should be better. I should be here for you. I’m sorry I’m so weak.”

“You aren’t weak. You’re so strong.”

“Only with you. You make me strong.”

Dr. Roberts returned with the water, and John helped him drink. 

“I’ll be okay,” he whispered to Dr. Roberts.

Dr. Roberts nodded. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Sherlock moved into John’s arms. “Hold me. Just a little while. Just until I feel strong again.”

The sound of defeat was so strong in Sherlock’s whisper that it brought tears to John’s eyes. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “I will always be here to hold you. I’ll always be here for you, for whatever you need.” His voice was rough. “You’re my life now. This is my place. With you. Always at your side.”

“Oh John. My John. I would never have survived this without you,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’ll do anything for you. I promise. Anything you need.”

“I just need you. Only you.”

John smiled.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “This is one of the most precious sounds in the world to me.”

“What?”

“With my head on your chest, listening to you breathe, listening to your heartbeat. It’s when I know that you’re my John.”

“Always. I’ll always be your John and you’ll be my Sherlock.”

“I always have been and always will be. Until the day I die.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Not a lot. I have to stop obsessing about the past. I remember that I was special once. I could glance at a crime scene or at a person and see things no one else could see. Now I’m less than I was. I’m less than everyone now. And it hurts. It hurts to know that what made me special is gone forever. I’m sorry I can’t be what I was for you. I only wanted you to have the best of me. Not this, never this.”

“You’re what I want. Just you. It doesn’t matter what happened to your mind or your body. I love your heart and your soul. You’ve done so much, lost so much for me. And I couldn’t muster the courage to admit to myself that I loved you.”

“You weren’t ready. It’s alright.”

“No it isn’t damnit. I was so damned blind, so stupid. I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I saw you hurt over and over again protecting me. You killed a man for me, Sherlock.”

“I . . . I’ve killed many people to keep you safe, John,” Sherlock whispered. “It haunts me sometimes, seeing their last moments, the life fade from their eyes. They weren’t good people but I left widowed wives and husbands, children without a father or a mother. Parents without children. The blood will never come off my hands, John. Maybe this, all of this, is my punishment for what I did.”

“They were bad people, Sherlock. Anyone who worked for Moriarty was no better than he was. You did what you had to do. If Mycroft was involved then there was government sanction. I killed people in Afghanistan. I hate that I had to, but it’s a part of war. I know how you feel, Sherlock. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do. With my life.”

“Then believe me. You take too much on yourself.”

“If you’re here, I feel better. Talk to me.”

John began to talk quietly.

“Take me out to the sitting room?”

“Alright.”

John lifted Sherlock into his wheelchair and pushed it and the IV stand out into the sitting room.

“Sherlock, are you feeling better?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Yes. I’m sorry if I worried everyone,” he said quietly. “Everything seems to upset me. I’ll try to be better.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We know that you’re working on getting better, dear.” She bent over and kissed his forehead. 

“I made you a picture, Uncle Sherlock,” Rosie said as she handed it to him.

“It’s beautiful. Who are all these people?”

Rosie looked at the picture and pointed. “It’s us.” She pointed to a man with blond hair. “That’s Papa,” a little girl, “and me,” a curly black haired man in a chair, “and you,” a woman with brown hair, “and Mrs. Hudson,” and a blonde woman in the corner, “and that’s Mama in the hospital. I put her in because she’ll come to live here with us when she’s better.”

Sherlock went pale and shivered.

“I . . . It’s a wonderful picture. I love it.”

Rosie smiled up at him.

“John, would you stick it to the refrigerator so everyone can see it?”

“Sure.” John took it from Sherlock’s shaking hand. He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and looked at him. 

John looked at Rosie. “Hon. I know we’re supposed to move in in a few days but would you mind moving in early? You’d have to sleep on the sofa for a few nights. Would that be okay?”

“Okay. Is it because Sherlock’s sad?”

“He needs us to be here for him. Is that alright?”

“If he needs us, I want us to be here for him.” Rosie went over to pat Sherlock’s hand. She smiled. “We love you, Sherlock.”

He smiled back. “And I love you, too.”

Mycroft and his men brought John and Rosie’s things. “The men will be coming tomorrow to start the renovations. It shouldn’t take long.”

Before dinner, they heard the lift engage. Molly and Greg stepped out of the life, hand in hand, both with huge grins on their faces. 

Sherlock looked at them, smiling. “Congratulations!” he said. 

Mycroft, John, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson looked confused.

Molly held up her left hand. A diamond ring shone there. “We’re getting married.”

“And we’re gonna have a baby,” Greg said, a huge smile on his face.

John and Mrs. Hudson hugged them and congratulated them.

“Congratulations,” Mycroft said. 

“Yay!” Rosie said. “Can I call the baby my cousin?”

Molly squatted down and touched her shoulder. “I’d really, really like that.” She hugged Rosie tight and kissed her cheek.

“This calls for a celebration,” Sherlock said.

“Indeed it does,” Mycroft said as he took out his mobile. He ordered a lovely dinner and plenty of champagne and even a special engagement cake for dessert. 

They spent a lovely evening, talking and laughing. Around 7:30, Greg and Molly left, saying they had to tell their relatives and other friends.

Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, John, Rosie, and Sherlock spent the rest of the evening talking and playing games before everyone took their leave. John got Rosie ready for bed and made up the sofa for her. He got Sherlock ready for bed and dressed for it himself. As he slid between the sheets, Sherlock cuddled into his arms and John felt that he was finally, truly at home. That he was in the place he was meant to be — with Sherlock. He’d never felt this way before. Not growing up with his family, not in the barracks, not with Mary — this, this was where he was always meant to be.

He pulled Sherlock closer. “Love?” he whispered. “You awake?”

“We just laid down, John,” he said.

“As soon as I pulled you into my arms, I realized something.”

“What?”

“This right here. This is my real home. This is the place I’m meant to be. I feel more at home here than anywhere in my life.”

“I . . . I’m glad. I’ve never felt at home anywhere but with you. Those two years away almost killed me. All I had was the you that lived in my mind palace. A whole wing was all you. How you smelled, how you felt, a whole room dedicated to your smile and laugh . . . when I was going to give up, your voice would tell me that I had to come home to you. And now I have. It’s taken so long but this is where I need to be, where I have to be. I know I’m not much anymore, but, if you want me, everything I have, everything I am — it all belongs to you — everything.” He looked up at John.

John smiled as tears came to his eyes. “You’re my heart, Sherlock. You always have been. I just wish I could have realized it before. Everything I have is yours. You have my love, my heart, my soul. It’s all yours.” He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

John kissed Sherlock again. The feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his felt absolutely right. Sherlock was a bit clumsy, but he’d never been kissed before. Sherlock grew more passionate. John’s hand found its way into Sherlock’s hair. His other hand travelled down Sherlock’s back. He could feel the ridges and bumps of the scars. Sherlock flinched away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking down. “It’s ugly, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s part of you. I’m sorry that it’s there because I know how you got it but I’m not disgusted by it, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“You should be. I am.”

“Oh, love,” John whispered. “It’ll be alright. I promise.”

Sherlock snuggled back into John’s arms. He had to get the surgery done soon. He didn’t want John having to feel that any longer. He knew every time John saw or felt his scars that he blamed himself for them. Sherlock couldn’t have that.

“These scars aren’t your fault, you know. None of it’s your fault,” Sherlock said.

John said, “I know that mentally. But I should have got to you. I should have saved you.” 

“In no way is it your responsibility. Never. I never want you to think that, ever again.”

“Okay. Okay. I promise.”

Sherlock felt himself relaxing into John’s arms. John’s smell surrounded him, the reassurance of hearing his breath and heartbeat, feeling John’s warmth along the length of his body — Sherlock felt safe and loved and he relaxed more and more until he fell asleep.

John held the fragile man in his arms and kissed his forehead. This man was so precious to him. He wanted to put him in a bubble to protect him. Make 221B a fortress so they would be safe from the world. The world had been cruel to Sherlock. And John would do absolutely everything in his power to keep him from getting hurt again. 

John felt himself drifting off, when Sherlock twitched in his arms. He twitched again and moaned and John knew he was in the midst of a bad dream.

“It’s okay. You’re alright. You’re safe. John’s here with you,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear as he slowly rubbed his back.

Sherlock jerked in his arms. “No,” he whispered. “Please don’t hurt John. Leave him alone. Hurt me instead.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. You’re safe. I’m safe. It’s okay.”

Sherlock slowly calmed as John tightened his grip and was soon breathing deeply again. “Protecting me even in your nightmares,” he whispered.

John soon fell asleep. He woke just before the alarm. Sherlock was still asleep.

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead and got up. He looked for his clothes in the suitcases and went in to shower and shave. When he started the tea, he went into the sitting room and gently shook Rosie awake.

“Morning, Pumpkin. Did you have a good sleep?”

“Mmmm hmmm,” she hummed as she rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“They’re coming to do your room today. You’ll be able to move in tomorrow after the new paint and wallpaper dries.”

“Yay!” she said, sitting up.

John smiled. “Let’s get you ready for school.”

Rosie jumped up and went into the loo.

“What would you like for breakfast, love?” John called.

“French toast,” she called from behind the closed door.

John went in to get her clothes out of the suitcase and closed the door to Sherlock’s room.

He knocked on the door and handed her the clothes before he went to start breakfast. When she came out, the first batch of toast was ready. He got her a glass of milk and set her plate on the table. He sat opposite her with his cup of tea and a plate of French toast.

“Any good?” he asked after she’d put plenty of butter and syrup on it and stuffed a huge piece in her mouth.

“Mmmm hmmmm,” she said and nodded.

He smiled at her. When they finished, he sent her in to brush her teeth and then to bring him her hairbrush. He packed her lunch and made sure her bag was packed. When she returned with the hairbrush, he brushed her hair.

“Already?” he asked.

“Yes, Papa.”

John took her downstairs in the lift and walked her out to one of Mycroft’s cars, waiting at the curb.

“Have a good day,” he said as he bent over to kiss the top of her head and hug her.

“You too, Papa. Tell Uncle Sherlock I said bye.”

“I will.” He strapped her in and waved as the car pulled away.

When he got back upstairs, he went into the office and asked Sam and Dr. Roberts if they’d like some breakfast. After they’d eaten, he did the dishes.

Mycroft and the work crew showed up at 8:30. 

John started to get a bit concerned. Sherlock was still asleep. The noise should long ago have woken him.

He knocked softly and opened the door. “Still asleep, love?” he said softly.

Sherlock stirred in the darkened room and a quiet moan escaped his lips.

John moved instantly to the bed. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock’s hands were covering his eyes. John reached out and gently moved them. His face was wet with tears. His eyes were squeezed shut. 

“Migraine?” he whispered. 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed.

“Just a second. I’ll get a cool cloth and your pain meds.” 

As he went into the kitchen, he spoke to Dr. Roberts. “He’s got a migraine. He’ll need his pain meds.” He went back into the loo and got a flannel running it under the cold water before squeezing the water from it.

He went back in and placed the cloth across Sherlock’s eyes. He was moaning, clutching his head. John whispered, “You’ll have your pain medication in a moment.”

Dr. Roberts came in and gave Sherlock the pain shot before he took his pulse and blood pressure. He moved to the window and closed the dark curtains, plunging the barely lighted room into darkness.

“Sherlock, can you open your eye? I just want to check your pupil,” Dr. Roberts asked.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock said quietly.

Dr. Roberts pulled the flannel from Sherlock’s forehead and gently pulled open his right eye. As soon as he flashed his light into Sherlock’s eye, Sherlock jerked away. He surged to the left over the side of the bed and violently vomited on the floor. He screamed in pain at the sudden movement before he vomited again and again. 

John pulled him up as he continued to dry heave. He covered his eyes again with the flannel. 

Sherlock whimpered as he reached out for John. “Help me, John,” he whispered.

“It’s okay.” He looked up at Dr. Roberts. “Give him something to sleep.”

“I can’t. Not with the pain medication.”

Sherlock began to moan louder and louder as he clenched John’s jumper. “Help me,” he whimpered. 

“Sherlock, lay still,” John said gently.

The moans grew louder. “Help me!” Sherlock begged.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft said from the door.

“Migraine,” John said.

Sherlock screamed once, long and loud before he fell unconscious.

The sound of work upstairs had ended with Sherlock’s first scream.

John looked at Dr. Roberts. “Can you go upstairs and tell them everything’s okay?”

“Of course.”

John pulled Sherlock into his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll stay with you, love. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I know it hurts. It’s been so long since you had such a bad one. I’d hoped that they’d gone. It’ll go away. I promise. I’ll stay here with you.”

John sat for hours as Sherlock breathed slowly, occasionally whimpering. Mrs. Hudson brought him tea. Mycroft sat across from him on the bed, holding Sherlock’s hand.

By lunch time, Sherlock started to stir. He opened his eyes slowly.

“How are you feeling?” John asked.

“It’s still there, beating with my heartbeat. It’s not as bad as it was. I . . . I’m sorry I vomited all over the floor.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Little Brother.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and winced as a wave of pain went through his head. “Do you think I could have a bath? I think it might relax me.”

“Sure. I’ll get it ready.”

“It’s okay. Sam can do it.”

“I want to take care of you, Sherlock. You’re in pain, and I want to help you.”

“Alright. Can it just be the light from the hall though? I don’t think I could stand the bright light in there.”

“How about candles?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll go run the water. Do you want a drink first?”

“I better take my meds. But just water. I don’t think my stomach will take anymore than that.”

John went to get Sherlock’s meds and water and then started the bath.

“If you think you’re going to be okay, I think I’ll sneak back to the office,” Mycroft said.

“You don’t sneak, My,” Sherlock said smiling.

“Yes, well . . . Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

John found a bunch of candles in the kitchen cupboard. He took them in and lit them. He knew that Sherlock had issues with John seeing his body, and if it was darker in there, he could be more at ease.

He got out the shampoo and soap and a nice fluffy flannel.

John went in their room and took off his jumper and rolled up his sleeves.

“You’re okay? You still want the bath?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

John pulled back the quilts. He undressed Sherlock and took off his nappy. “You ready?”

Sherlock looked down, his face reddening.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I . . . I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should’ve just asked Sam to bathe me. He’s used to this . . . this mess.”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly as he sat down and took Sherlock’s hand. “Look at me.”

Sherlock’s face tipped up, and he looked at John, his eyes shining.

“You’re the man I love.” He reached out and touched his face. “I love all of you. I always will.” He raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips and kissed it. Sherlock shyly smiled. 

John gently picked Sherlock up. Sherlock tucked his forehead into John’s neck and closed his eyes. John carried him into the loo and set him into the water. “Not too hot?”

“No. It’s perfect.” Sherlock leaned his head against the back of the tub. “It’s nice in here. Warm, cozy.” He shut his eyes and relaxed.

John gently touched Sherlock’s head. He moved around and massaged his scalp, running his fingers lightly over his forehead and temples. He could feel Sherlock relaxing even more.

“Mmmm. That’s nice,” he whispered.

“Is it helping?”

“Yes. The pain’s easing a bit.”

“You want me to wash your hair?”

“Please.” Sherlock leaned forward. John had brought a cup in with him and used it to dip into the water and wet his hair. He massaged the shampoo into his hair. Sherlock sighed as John poured water over his head. John rubbed in the conditioner and rinsed again. He wet the flannel and washed Sherlock’s face before moving down his arms and across his chest (carefully avoiding looking at the scars on his chest) and stomach. 

“Do you want me to wash your penis or do you want to do it?” he asked.

Sherlock blushed and looked away. “You can do it,” he whispered.

“Don’t be embarrassed, love.”

John finished his legs and moved to wash his back and buttocks. 

“You want to lay back and relax some more?”

“No. Can I get out?”

“Sure.” John reached into the water and pulled the plug. He went and got a nice warm towel and started drying Sherlock’s hair and slowly dried the rest of him. He braced himself and lifted Sherlock clear of the tub. 

When they got back to the bedroom, they’d found that Sam had changed the bed and set out clean clothes.

“Do I still have to wear the nappy?”

“Just in case. It’s okay. It won’t be for long.” John put the nappy on quickly so as not to embarrass him before dressing him and covering him up.

“Feeling better?”

“More relaxed. There’s still a bit of pain.”

“You want your lunch now? Is your stomach a bit better?”

“I might be able to do it. But keep a bucket close.”

John helped him with his drink.

“You’re getting too thin to be healthy.”

“You worry too much.”

John smiled at him. 

“Why don’t you go up and see how Rosie’s room is coming?”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m feeling a bit better. Go up. If they do something wrong, it’s better that it gets fixed now. I assume she wants to move in as soon as possible?”

John smiled. “Okay. How about if I bring you back a bowl of ice cream?”

“That’ll be great.”

John bent over and pecked Sherlock on the lips.

Sherlock laid back, the smile fading from his face. It bothered him that John had seen his naked body, had touched it. He knew he couldn’t make a big fuss or John would get upset.

He would have to talk to Mycroft about getting the surgery as soon as he was recovered. He’d noticed how John couldn’t bring himself to look at his chest. He knew it disgusted John and was a constant reminder of how Sherlock’s virginity had been stolen so cruelly from him. In Sherlock’s mind, it still made him feel dirty and used. He knew, logically, that many rape survivors felt that way and that he would probably feel different once he and Dr. Cooper discussed it. They had touched on it but Sherlock knew there needed to be more of a discussion.

John had assured him repeatedly that he wanted him, that the scars were okay, that he’d be with him because he loved him. But when the time came, if Sherlock could bear it, how could he expect John to touch him, to make love to him without seeing those scars. He knew John hated them because of how he got them. It made John think of the men who’d done this to him and now of Mary. And Sherlock didn’t want their future sex life to involve John feeling anger, hurt, and guilt every time he saw Sherlock naked. He could insist that they only made love with his T-shirt on but that would still mean John would know they were there and be visualizing them. 

Perhaps if he could at least get a skin graft over the scars on his chest, and perhaps the bullet scar . . . maybe that would be enough. A graft for his back could wait. 

The fact that he didn’t feel up to anal sex for the foreseeable future was another problem. He didn’t think he could bear even John doing it. But what to do? Would John be open to being on top and receiving? Would he want to do hand jobs or oral sex? Sherlock’s hands wouldn’t be much good for that. He’d have to ask someone to help him research sexual positions for gay men. Not Mycroft definitely, and he was sure it would embarrass Greg. Maybe Dr. Cooper. 

He ran his fingers lightly over his T-shirt, where he knew the scars were. He could feel the outline of them. His mind flashed back to the nightmare he’d had when John undressed him and cruelly laughed at him before carving two more lines into his chest to represent the rapes at the hospital. A lump formed in his throat and tears came to his eyes. The look of disgust and loathing on John’s face . . . He knew it was a reflection of his own feelings, rather than John’s, but it hurt to have seen that beloved face twisted like that.

He wished he could reach in and scratch them out himself, cut them from his skin. He found himself absentmindedly doing it, scratching through his shirt harder and harder. The pain wasn’t registering at all as he thought about the dream.

“The room looks great. They’re just putting up the wallpaper. It’s going to be so bright in there. What’s wrong? Sherlock, stop that.”

Sherlock looked up at John, his reverie interrupted. 

John reached out and grabbed his hand away from his chest. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock looked down. There was blood on his shirt. John lifted the shirt up. There were deep scratches on his chest.

“I’m sorry, John . . . I . . .”

“Why were you hurting yourself?” John demanded. He grabbed tissues from the box by the bed and called for Sam and Dr. Roberts.

“I was thinking about that dream. The one where you saw the scars and carved two more. You were so disgusted with me. I . . . I’m sorry. I just want them gone. You wouldn’t look at them when you bathed me. I know they disgust you. I know you hate them. Of all my scars, you hate them the most, and I want them to be gone.” He was crying now, the sobs slurring the words.

“Calm down, love. Please. Don’t hurt yourself because of me. I don’t hate you. You know I don’t. It’s just how you got them that makes me angry sometimes. Not you, never you, love.”

“But . . . but they disgust you more than anything. The rest of the scars can wait. I need them gone because it makes me remember. It makes you think of them and of Mary. I don’t want you to feel anger and hate and guilt the first time we make love, not even for a second.”

John touched Sherlock’s face. “Oh love.”

Dr. Roberts and Sam came in. John got them to clean and bandage the scratches as he gently washed Sherlock’s hand to clean the blood off and got him a clean T-shirt.

“When Dr. Cooper comes this afternoon, please talk to him about this. Promise?”

“There’re so many other things . . .” Sherlock said in a tiny, low voice. “I . . . I’m so messed up, John. I don’t know if I’ll ever be normal. I won’t ever be the man I was. I don’t understand why you care about me.”

“There are a lot of things for you to work through. But I’m here for you. I’ll help you with anything you need help with. And don’t say you’ll never be normal. You’ll be who you’ll be. And I will always love you.”

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered. 

John lay down and pulled Sherlock into his arms. “He’ll be here soon and you can talk. Promise you won’t hurt yourself anymore.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. I was thinking of the dream and how much I wanted to be rid of the scars. I’d hated feeling the outline of the scars through my shirt, and I just started scratching.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

“My said he’d find the best plastic surgeon.”

“Not yet. Not for awhile. Your poor body’s been through so much. Let yourself heal.”

“I’m tired of healing. I dream of running through London. Most mornings, when I wake up, I want to swing out of bed and put on my dressing gown and go check for cases. When I try to move, my legs won’t go and I relive it all again. I hate the idea of having to either sit or lay down for the rest of my life. I want to be myself again. I want it to be like when I was a child. I want to run through the fields with Redbeard playing pirate. I want to run after criminals with you.”

“I know you do, love. I know you do. If I could give you my legs and my arms, I would.”

“I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to accept this. It’s so hard. It’s so hard to give up everything I’ve had to give up. I feel like I’ve lost complete control of my life. I spent my whole life having to be self sufficient, trying, and sometimes spectacularly failing, to look after myself. And now I’m dependent on other people for everything. If I was left alone, I’d starve. I’m so afraid that you’ll get tired of looking after me. You’ll get tired of being a caregiver and go out to find someone else to love.”

“Please don’t be scared, love. I’ll never leave you. You’re all I want. It’s so unfair what you’ve had to go through. And it’s hard to accept all of it. It’s hard to accept that so much was taken from you.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be harping on and on about it. You’ll get tired of listening to me. Why don’t you go get one of my books, and we can read.”

“You aren’t harping. It’s important to talk. But I’ll go and get a book. Any preferences?”

“No.”

“Want some tea?”

“Sure. Where’s Mrs. Hudson?”

“She’s visiting Mrs. Turner.”

“Ah.”

John returned a few minutes later with tea and a book under his arm. They drank their tea and John opened up the book and started reading. Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder and closed his eyes, listening to John’s soothing voice.

They’d gotten through a few chapters when Dr. Cooper came by.

John helped Sherlock go to the loo before he left them for the session. He went upstairs and watched the workers finish the room, chatting with them. They finished the wallpaper and moved the bed, dresser, and wardrobe in, and put some rugs on the floor.

“Could she move in tonight?”

“The paint should dry for awhile and the wallpaper. It should be fine by morning.”

“Thanks, guys. How about a nice cup of tea? I’m sure there’s cake downstairs too.”

They packed up their things and came downstairs just as the kettle boiled. John played host to them and they talked and joked before he thanked them again as they left.

 

Sherlock and Dr. Cooper talked about Sherlock’s injury and his fears. Dr. Cooper agreed that he needed to keep the lines of communication open with John. To let him know his fears. 

He told him to pick something in his life that made him happy to concentrate on when he felt his emotions carrying him away.

Sherlock close his eyes and saw John’s eyes and smile — the huge happy smile he reserved for Sherlock when he was amazing and brilliant. 

Dr. Cooper told him to try that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: My computer has died. The mother board was fried. The computer guy says he may be able to save some of the information on it. So, it might be a little while before I can post a new chapter. Sorry.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Rosie move in to 221B. A very rough day with lots of emotional ups and downs leads to an accident that has lasting effects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. My computer died, and I lost my notes. But the good news was that the computer tech was able to recover everything.

After Rosie came home from school and Mrs. Hudson had gotten her a snack, Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Rosie, and Sam went up in the lift to see Rosie’s new room.   
Rosie squealed with delight and hugged Sherlock. “Can I sleep in here tonight, Papa?”  
“One more night on the sofa, I’m afraid,” John said. “The workers said the paint and wallpaper need to dry. We’ll bring your clothes up tomorrow, and you can sleep here tomorrow night.”  
Rosie clapped her hands. “When we’re done, will you take a picture and take it to Mama?”  
Sherlock turned pale and looked down at his hands.  
“O . . . of course I can. I’m sure she’ll love it,” John said as he put a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock reached up and laid his hand on John’s.  
“Sam,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m hurting a bit. Can you take me back to bed? I think I’ve overdone it a bit.”  
“You want me to come?” John asked, his face twisted with worry.  
“No. No. It’s okay. You stay up here with Rosie and discuss where to put things. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson can help too.” He smiled. “I’m okay. I’m just tired.”  
The smile disappeared as the doors closed on the lift. Sherlock felt the careful mask he’d thrown on upstairs beginning to crack. Sam lifted him into bed and covered him up. “Could I have a drink of water?” he asked.  
Sam returned a few moments later and helped Sherlock drink. He settled down and turned to the window.  
He knew he had to stop this. Rosie had every right to talk about her mother. John had agreed that they couldn’t tell her the truth. She was far too young to know what her mother had done. He couldn’t freak out every time Rosie mentioned her. Rosie would be living here.  
He knew that in his head, but his stomach was clenched. He felt himself shaking, his mind flashing back to the warehouse. He was breathing too fast; his heart was beating way too fast. He was getting dizzy. He looked at his hands. They were shaking wildly.  
He tried to bring himself under control as a sob escaped his mouth. “Dr. F . . . F . . . Foster,” he called.  
Sam came through the door. “Are you alright?”  
Sherlock shook his head. “N . . . need Doc . . . Doctor.”  
Sam returned a few seconds later with Dr. Foster.  
“What’s wrong?”  
“I . . . I can’t breathe. M . . . my heart is pounding.”  
Dr. Foster pushed him onto his back and listened to his heart.  
“P . . . panic attack,” Sherlock whispered as he fought to control himself.   
“Take some deep breaths and slowly let them out.”  
“I . . . I can . . . can’t.”  
“Try, Sherlock. You’ve got to try. Hold my hand. Squeeze it as hard as you can and breathe with me.” Slowly, Sherlock began to breath with Dr. Foster. His head was swimming. He was so dizzy.  
“It’s okay. You’re calming. Your heartbeat is going down. Continue with the deep breaths. Just a little more.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes. He was far too dizzy and felt sick to his stomach.  
“M . . . might vomit,” he said. He heard Sam moving around.  
“We’ve got something for you to vomit in. Just let us know,” Dr. Foster said.  
Sherlock nodded his head, which turned out to be a mistake. He opened his eyes in a panic. Dr. Foster helped him lean over the small dish as he vomited up his lunch and tea.  
He laid back down as Sam brought him something to drink.  
“Are you feeling better?”  
“Dizzy. But I’m not shaking as bad. D . . . don’t tell John. He’ll blame himself.”  
“I won’t lie to Dr. Watson about your health.”  
They heard the lift engage.  
John came into the room a few seconds later. “What’s wrong?” he asked.  
Sherlock closed his eyes. “I’m alright.”  
“Not if you needed Sam and Dr. Foster.” John sat down beside him.  
“He’s stable now. Sam and I will leave you to talk.”  
“What’s wrong? What happened?”  
Sherlock hated seeing the worry on John’s face. And he couldn’t lie to him. “I . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I had a panic attack. I . . . I flashed back to the warehouse, and . . . I . . . I couldn’t stop shaking and my heartrate and breathing started going like crazy and I . . . I threw up.”  
“Are you okay now?”  
“Dizzy. I had to take deep breaths to calm down. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be sorry. I knew you were upset upstairs. I should have come down with you.”  
“No. You needed to be with Rosie. You can’t keep coming to me when she needs you. It’s my fault. I can’t do this every time Rosie mentions her mother. She has every right to. It’s just my weakness again.”  
“You aren’t weak. Never, love. What Mary did was unforgiveable. You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”  
“John . . . I . . . I think I need to see her.”  
“What?”  
“I need to see Mary. I need to talk to her. I need to understand the hatred. Maybe if I can wrap my head around it, maybe it’ll help me heal.”  
“No. Sherlock, you can’t. All she’ll do is hurt you again.”   
“I think I have to, John. I understand if you can’t come too. But I can’t have panic attacks all the time. I have to heal.”  
“You’d have to get Mycroft to agree, and I don’t imagine that’s possible.”  
“Will you call him? Please?”  
“No, Sherlock. I know you think this will help but it really, really won’t.”  
“I’ll ask Sam or someone else to call for me.”  
“It’ll traumatize you. It could make things much worse.”  
“I know. But I need some closure, John. I need to see that she’s in Mycroft’s prison and won’t ever be able to hurt me ever again. Whatever she says will be bad. I know she hates me because I love you. But I have to know. I have to hear it from her own mouth. Please, John. Please let me do this.”  
“I can’t forbid you, Sherlock. That’s not the relationship I want us to have.”  
“But if you absolutely say no, I can’t go.”  
John took Sherlock’s hand and kissed it. “I just don’t want to be hurt anymore than you already have.”  
“I know, and I appreciate it. I really do. But I want to go.”  
“Alright. But, like I said, I can’t do anything about it if Mycroft says no. It’s his detention centre. You need his permission.”  
“I understand. Let me talk to him.”  
John got out his mobile and dialed Mycroft’s number, handing it to Sherlock. “You want me to leave?” he asked.  
“No,” Sherlock said.  
“Hello, John. How can I help you?” Mycroft asked.  
“It’s me, My. I need you to do something for me.”  
“Anything.”  
“I need to see Mary.”  
“What? Sherlock, that’s not advisable. She’s quite mad. It would only hurt you.”  
“I know it’ll hurt. John and I have discussed it.”  
“He can’t have agreed to this.”  
“He said he didn’t want to forbid me. Please, Mycroft, I need to see for myself. I need to know that she can’t get out.”  
“You have my assurance that . . .”  
“And I believe you. I . . . I just need to see with my own eyes. I get upset every time Rosie mentions her mother. I can’t allow it to happen anymore. She lives here now. She should be free to mention her mother without me having a panic attack.”  
“It feels wrong but if you’re sure you need this . . .”  
“I am. Can you take me tomorrow?”  
“I’ll send a car at nine a.m. Is that acceptable?”  
“Thank you, My. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
“I can’t believe he agreed,” John said as he took his mobile back.  
“He knows I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need to go.”  
“Let me get you something, okay? You must be feeling rather empty.”  
“Just some tea. Thank you for understanding.”  
“I want you to get better. If you need this, you need it.”  
They heard the lift engage and stop at their floor. Rosie came charging in and threw herself on Sherlock and John’s bed.  
“Careful, sweetie. Don’t hurt Sherlock.”  
“Rosie wouldn’t hurt me,” Sherlock said, smiling. “What do you want to do tonight?”  
“Can we watch a movie in the sitting room?”  
“Sure. After dinner and you’ve done your homework and had your bath,” John said.  
“Okay, I’ll start my homework. Will you check it after I’m done, Sherlock?”  
“Of course, I will. What should we have for dinner?”  
“Hamburgers?” she said.  
“How about spaghetti from Angelo’s?” John said.  
“Yay!” Rosie said. “With garlic bread and meatballs.”  
“Okay. I’ll order. You go start your homework.” John and Rosie went out to the sitting room. Rosie returned with her book bag and laid down on her stomach beside him.  
They talked quietly as he watched her do her maths, a page from her history workbook, and write a page of sentences before she studied her spelling words.  
He checked each one for her and congratulated her for doing such good work before he heard her spelling words.  
She packed everything up and went out to set her book bag by the sofa. Tomorrow would be the day she bought her lunch so she put her lunch bag in the kitchen. John put the money for her lunch in an envelope and put it in her book bag.   
John came in and got Sherlock, taking him to the loo before putting him in his wheelchair and wheeling him to the kitchen.  
Dinner arrived and they sat down to eat with Dr. Foster and Sam. Sherlock sipped up his drink, his stomach growling at the smell of Angelo’s food.  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have brought you out here. I know how much you love Angelo’s food.”  
“It’s okay. It’s just two more weeks.”  
After dinner, Sam offered to clean up as John took Rosie into the bathroom for a bath and to put her pyjamas on.  
Sherlock asked Sam to set him on the sofa before John and Rosie were done. Sherlock smiled as Rosie cuddled in beside him. John went over to the telly and turned on the Blu-ray. “What do you want to watch, hon?”  
“How about Beauty and the Beast?”  
Sherlock felt the smile slip from his face. But he quickly plastered on a fake smile. “Sounds good.”  
“Are you sure? We can watch something else,” John said as he dug out the case and slipped the Blu-ray in the machine.  
“It’s Rosie’s movie night. Perhaps we can watch a nice documentary tomorrow night?”  
“Eww,” Rosie said.  
“A nice documentary on tigers, maybe. I think there’s one on tomorrow night.”  
“That might be okay.”  
Sherlock smiled again. John sat down beside Rosie and pulled her into his arms before starting the movie.  
Sherlock tried to block the movie from his mind. He stared to the right of the screen and laughed slightly after John and Rosie. He tried not to let it bother him. The story just hit too close to home.  
Halfway through, he asked Brad to bring him a drink of water. He was struggling to control himself. But he couldn’t do anything to upset John. He’d already let his emotions overwhelm him once today, and he couldn’t do it again.   
He forced himself to relax as the movie built towards its climax.  
“Yay!” Rosie clapped as the movie ended. “Did you like it, Sherlock?”  
“Oh yes. Very enjoyable. Is Belle your favourite princess?”  
“One of them. I can’t pick a favourite. Do you have a favourite one?”   
“Maybe Merida.”  
“You’ve seen Brave?”  
John looked at him with an eyebrow raised.  
“It came on after a movie I was watching and I watched it. I couldn’t find the remote.”  
“That sounds like you,” John smiled. “Come on, you. Time for bed. You go to the loo and brush your teeth, and I’ll get the sofa ready for you.”  
John picked up Sherlock and set him on the bed. He asked Brad to get Sherlock ready for bed when Rosie was done.  
Sherlock heard John and Rosie talking as Brad took him to the loo and helped him brush his teeth. He dressed Sherlock in his pyjamas and laid him in bed.  
Sherlock thanked Brad, who went out and brought Sherlock his meds and drink.  
Rosie ran in and hugged Sherlock good night, kissing him on the cheek. He hugged her back and kissed her cheek. “Have a good sleep,” he said.  
“You too.”  
He heard John reading her a story and was thankful for the time by himself. His emotions were all over the place. He struggled to control them. “Oh God,” he whispered.   
He heard John get up and go into the loo. He turned off the lights and came into their room. He shut the door and went over to get his pyjamas and a clean T-shirt.  
Sherlock watched John undress and dress. He wanted so much to touch his skin, to taste it.   
John turned on the nightlight in the corner and Sherlock’s music before turning the light off and getting under the covers. He pulled Sherlock into his arms and kissed him softly on the lips. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard day.”  
“It’s okay. Some days are good and some are bad.”  
“Are you okay? What was it with Beauty and the Beast?”  
“Nothing. I was happy to watch it with Rosie.” He silently cursed himself for somehow revealing too much on the sofa.  
“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. Something was bothering you. Why would a children’s cartoon bother you so much?”  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “Y . . . you’ll laugh at me.”  
“Never. What’s wrong?”  
“It’s the title, I guess.”  
“Beauty and the Beast? Why would it bother you?”  
“It hits a bit too close to home, John. You . . . you’re beautiful. You’re smart and funny. I’m hideous. I’m covered in scars. I’m ugly. I . . . it just makes me think how much I don’t deserve you. I was watching you get undressed. I keep thinking how much I want to touch you. And I might never get to.”  
“You aren’t hideous. You aren’t ugly. You’ll never be. And it’s okay to wait for sex. We’ll have it someday.”  
“But what if I can’t? I can’t make you live without it.”  
“I can take care of myself if I need to. But I have you. I can hold you and kiss you. That’s more than enough. If you want me to take my T-shirt off, you can touch all you want. I think we should wait for anything from the waist down.”  
“Do you think so? Would you do that for me?”  
“Anything you want.”  
“Thank you.”  
John sat up and took off his T-shirt, throwing it on the floor before he pulled Sherlock back into his arms. Sherlock laid his face against John’s warm chest. He reached out and laid his hand across John’s right nipple. He felt the wispy blond hairs around his nipple and took the tip of his finger to circle it. It got hard almost instantly. “You’re so warm. So cozy.”  
“Like a teddy bear?”  
“You have a bit of chest hair but you aren’t that fuzzy.”  
John giggled and then moaned as Sherlock continued to circle his nipple.  
“Like that?”  
“Definitely.”  
“How about this?” Sherlock said as he lifted his head and sucked on John’s left nipple before running the tip of his tongue around and over it.  
John groaned again and pulled Sherlock closer. “Oh God, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock smiled against John’s skin. He reached up and kissed John’s throat, laving his tongue over his Adam’s apple before he laid his head back down. He patted John’s chest.  
“Well. It’s good to know that I can at least turn you on.”  
“You just have to look at me the right way and you turn me on.”  
Sherlock smiled.  
Sherlock fell asleep soon after, warm and protected in John’s arms.  
He woke with John shaking his shoulder. “It’s eight. You better get up. Mycroft’s coming to pick you up in an hour.”  
Sam took Sherlock to the loo, gave him a bath, shaved him, and dressed him.   
John fed him his nutritional drink, and Dr. Roberts gave him his pain injection. He agreed to take the IV out until Sherlock got back. He took his other meds before John helped him brush his teeth.  
He wrapped a blanket around Sherlock’s legs and pulled a jacket on him.  
Mycroft arrived at precisely nine a.m. John took Sherlock down to the car and helped him in, doing up the seatbelt before Mycroft’s man put his wheelchair in the boot. John climbed in too.   
“I thought you weren’t coming?” Sherlock asked.  
“I don’t want you there without me.” John buckled himself in and reached out to hold Sherlock’s hand.  
“I’m still not entirely convinced of the wisdom of this,” Mycroft said as they started out. “Sherlock, you don’t have to do this.”  
“I think I do. I’m not looking forward to it. But I have some things to put to rest.”  
They rode in relative silence to Mycroft’s detention centre.  
“The men who kidnapped you, the lawyers, and the go-between are all here as well. Do you want to see them?”  
“No. I know you’ve punished them. They were paid or were people that wanted to punish me because I put them in jail.”  
They pulled up in front of the centre. John carried Sherlock up the stairs and put him in the wheelchair that Mycroft’s man had carried up. He tucked in the blanket around his legs. They walked in and took the lift down, getting off on the medical floor.  
Sherlock felt so nervous, so scared, though he knew he had to do this. “You don’t have to come in, John. This is my problem. I know it hurts you to see her.”  
“I’m coming in.”  
“I don’t want to hurt you.”  
“I’m more concerned about you getting hurt,” John said.  
Sherlock took a deep breath as John wheeled him in.  
Mary was laying in a bed in the corner, the only one there. As Sherlock got closer, he saw that her hands were restrained.   
“Well, look who it is,” Mary said, smiling. “It’s Mycroft, John, and John’s broken little toy.”  
“Shut up, Mary,” John hissed.  
Sherlock looked at her. She couldn’t get to him, couldn’t get out. “Why, Mary?” he whispered.  
“What the hell do you mean why? You were supposed to die . . . you needed to die. You were supposed to die at Bart’s, but instead you killed Jim.”  
“He killed himself.”  
“Bullshit. I emptied one of Jim’s bank accounts and set out to make John love me so I could kill him if you came back. Then I found out you were still alive, and I stupidly fell in love with John. So I let the Serbians know you were coming. They were supposed to torture you to death. They’d only got a good start when your brother ruined it. I should have killed you myself, but I knew it would hurt you so much to know that I’d taken John from you. That seemed a greater torture than what you’d suffered in Serbia.  
“And I took one of Jim’s plans to burn the heart out of you. John was mine. But from the moment you came back, I knew that he was in love with you. And you had to pay. Killing you was too merciful. Taking everything from you was much better. And I did. I took everything from you.  
“Look at you now. You’re nothing. Less than nothing. Paralyzed, can’t use your hands, scarred, ugly, and dirty. I insisted they rape you, you know. And I heard you in the warehouse. I heard you crying in the night and begging John to come and get you. Do you really think John loves you? You’re worthless and stupid and useless. He just pities you. He’d never dirty himself enough to fuck you.”  
“Mary!” John said menacingly.  
“Let me guess. He’s said we’ll wait until you feel up to it or we’ll wait til you’re better. He’ll never do it. You had five different — no, wait — seven different cocks up your arse. He won’t look at your chest, I’ll bet. Doesn’t want to be reminded how disgusting you are. You won’t ever be able to have sex with him. John isn’t the kind to take. And the first time he tries to stick his cock up your arse, all you’ll feel is one of them hurting you. And John won’t take that for long. He’ll put it off until he goes out some night and finds someone else. Then he’ll leave you.” She smiled in triumph. “The perfect plan.”   
“You bitch!” John yelled and started forward.  
“No,” Sherlock said, reaching out to grab John’s arm. “It’s alright. She hasn’t said anything I haven’t thought.” He looked up at Mary. “But that’s the difference between you and me. If John leaves because he’s found love and happiness with someone else —I won’t say that it won’t hurt, because it will. But John’s happiness is more important to me than my own. If he leaves and he’s happy, I’ll be alright with it. All you care about is yourself.”  
Her face twisted with hatred. “Don’t pull your moral superiority on me, Sherlock Holmes.”  
“I did everything for John. I ruined myself to keep him safe from Moriarty. I was tortured. I was killed by you. I murdered Magnusson. I was willing to go to my death to protect him. I pushed him back to you because I thought it made him happy.”  
“You ruined my wedding, you bastard. Standing there telling everyone how much you loved my husband. Slinking away from the reception like a coward. I told John you didn’t care enough to stay. Who do you think kept him away from you for that month?”  
Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s anger and hatred almost radiating off of him. He reached out and touched Mycroft’s hand.  
“After that I had to make sure my plan went into action. But I almost gave in. I shot you knowing it would kill you. But you couldn’t stay dead. And for that I was grateful. And that bullshit you spouted to John that I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly. After I threatened you in the hospital, you knew that I did.”  
“But I pushed John back to you, didn’t I?”  
“Because the great Sherlock Holmes was a complete idiot.”  
“I didn’t want him to lose his family.”   
“Well, how’d that work out?”  
“I have a family,” John said from between clenched teeth. “I have a family at 221B with Sherlock, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson.”  
“Oh, poor John. Settling for your little broken doll. I was the one who made sure he didn’t go to Eastern Europe. I was behind the whole resurrected Jim fiasco. I couldn’t have him go and be killed when I had all of this planned for you. Death was too quick. I wanted you to suffer for years.”  
“People died,” Mycroft snapped.  
She shrugged. “To quote Jim, that’s what people DO. I needed Sherlock to be here to suffer. You know I took him away from you. I’d won. So I had to have you lose him. I told him we needed a break. That’s why you were gone two days before anyone knew you were gone. I made sure we were away and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft doesn’t pay attention unless he wants something. It was me, you know. After they beat your head into the floor and you were laying there in a puddle of blood, your brain scrambled, I was the one who cut your face. I thought I’d make you smile forever so I cut a lovely smile in your face. I was going to take both of your eyes, but settled for one. John would stay with you forever if you were completely blind.”  
John surged forward, slipping out of Sherlock’s hand. “You disgusting bitch!” he screamed. He reached the side of her bed and had pulled back his arm.  
“Don’t, John,” Sherlock said.  
John turned around and saw Sherlock’s tear-stained face. His eye was full of incredible pain.  
“Please, John. Don’t. Let Mycroft do it later. Not now.”  
“Got you on a short leash, hasn’t he?” Mary laughed. “And I’ve made dear Sherly cry. How touching.”  
John kneeled down in front of Sherlock and reached out to wipe the tears from his face. “Let’s go, yeah? You’ve got what you needed.”  
Sherlock leaned forward to peck John on the lips and lay his head on John’s shoulder. John wrapped his arms around him. Sherlock shifted, his nappy making crinkling noises.  
“Oh, oh, that’s the best thing ever,” Mary cackled. “The great Sherlock Holmes wearing nappies.” She laughed and laughed. “The man who hates having people touch him. How do you like it now, Mr. Big Man? Having to have someone wipe your arse and change your nappy? Wash your cock? Feed you? Dress you? This is even better than I thought.”  
Sherlock cringed. He felt tears wetting John’s shoulder. Everything she said felt like it was cutting through him like a knife.  
“I cared about you,” he said quietly. “I took you into my family, even though I couldn’t bring myself to fully trust you. I killed a man to keep you safe.”  
“You killed Magnusson because of John. Magnusson wanted info from Mycroft. You were Mycroft’s weakness, John was yours, and I was his. You did it for John. You murdered for John, not for me.”  
“I was willing to live by myself and never tell him so that he could be happy with you. If you’d asked me to stay away forever, I would have if I thought John was happy.”  
“I know you would have, Sherlock. That’s what I planned. I would have come to you and asked you to send John away. But then he went and decided he loved you and your brother figured out who was behind all of this.”   
Sherlock shivered. How close he’d come to losing John forever. He looked up at John.  
“Don’t worry. I’m here. She can’t hurt you anymore.”  
“You’ll be the one to hurt him,” Mary snapped. “From now on, it’ll be you. I know Sherlock. He’ll never leave 221B if he thinks someone will see him. You’ll be trapped there with him, feeling sorry for himself, forced to look after him like he was a child. How’ll you like that? No sex, changing nappies, listening to his whining. And how’s he going to help you with the baby and Rosie? You’ll have all three wanting something at the same time. Then you’ll leave. I can see you snapping, dumping the kids with your sister, and running away to booze and whore around with whoever you can find. Enjoy him while you can, Sherlock. John isn’t known for his patience.”  
Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. He saw the love there. He saw pain and the tears that were starting. He realized he was hurting John by making him stay there. “Let’s go home, John,” he whispered. “I’ve heard enough.”  
“Alright, love.” John stood up and turned to look at Mary. “Take a look. You’re never going to see me again. I just want to completely forget about you.”  
“I love you, John. I always will. You’ll be back. I can take care of you. He can’t.”  
“Do you think I’d ever willingly see you after all you’ve done?”  
“I’m the mother of your children.”  
“And you’ll never see them either. I had to tell Rosie you were in a mental hospital. I couldn’t break her heart by telling her exactly what you did. Though she did guess that you hurt Sherlock. She told me she hated you.”  
Mary looked stricken. “Bet you enjoyed that,” she said viciously to Sherlock.  
“I told her that she shouldn’t hate you.”  
Mary looked confused. “Why the hell would you do that?”  
“Because I didn’t want to hurt her.”  
“Don’t pretend you care about Rosie or anyone else. All you care about is yourself,” John spat.  
“I love her and our baby and I love you. Please, John. You know you can ask Mycroft, and he’ll let us all go. I’ll leave Sherlock alone. I won’t hurt him anymore. I’ve finished with that. I just want us to be a family. We can go away to another country.” She looked almost desperate.  
“You’re completely delusional if you think I’d ever go anywhere with you. And I won’t ever let our children around you.” He turned his back on her.  
“John!” she screamed. “You’ll pay for this!”  
John bent down and wiped the tears from Sherlock. “Home, okay love?”  
Sherlock nodded. John leaned forward and kissed him gently. He stood and went to turn Sherlock’s wheelchair.  
Mycroft stood still, ramrod straight. “You’ve made a terrible mistake, Mrs. Watson. If you think hurting my brother is a win for you, you’re completely wrong. You will pay dearly for the pain you’ve put him through.” Mycroft’s voice was chillingly hard.  
Mary had the grace to look scared.  
“You’ll be safe until your child is born. And then you’re mine.”  
“Don’t threaten me, Mycroft.”  
“It isn’t a threat. It’s a promise,” he hissed. He turned his back on her and followed John and Sherlock.  
They went up the lift and out into the car. John settled in beside Sherlock. As soon as the door was closed, Sherlock leaned his head on John’s shoulder and began to sob.  
“Oh, love,” John said as he put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him closer.  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock sobbed. “I know I hurt you. I know she hurt you. I’m sorry.”  
“I don’t care what she said to me. She upset you. Are you alright?”  
“No. I needed to confront her. I needed to see how delusional she was. I needed it, but . . . I . . . I,” Sherlock continued to sob. Mycroft reached out and held Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock clenched his brother’s hand and melted into John’s arms. He struggled to control his emotions. John was whispering to him, but he couldn’t hear. “All I can see is the hatred in her eyes. I . . . I wish she had killed me. It’s better than living like this. Everything she said . . . oh, John. I . . . I don’t want you to stay because you feel guilty or obligated.”  
“I’m not. I’m staying because I love you. And don’t say that. You aren’t better off dead. I want you here with me. I’ll take whatever you want to give me. Whatever part of you that you want to share with me.”  
“I want to give you everything. I . . . I just don’t know how much I can give.”  
“It’s alright. We have the rest of our lives. It’s all so new and different — for both of us. I’m yours and you’re mine. Don’t you think so?”  
Sherlock nodded. “I . . . I’m sorry. I’m so weak, John. I’ll be better. I won’t be what she said. I won’t whine and beg for things. I’ll try to go out. I promise.”   
“You’re trying every day. Forget about what she said. You’re getting better and stronger every day. I see it.”  
“We all see it, Little Brother. There’ll be setbacks and some days you feel worse, but we all see the progress you’re making. You’re dealing with physical limitations and depression and anxiety and PTSD. Each of those is daunting enough. But having to deal with all of them . . . I admire your strength.”  
“I don’t feel strong.”  
“But you are. You’ve dealt with so much your whole life. It will all be better. You have all of us and you have John. We won’t leave you alone.” Mycroft squeezed his brother’s hand.  
“We’re here for you,” John said. He stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  
Sherlock sighed. “I . . . I know all of you are. And I appreciate it. I feel lucky to have so many people care. I’m sorry that I’m so much trouble.”  
“You aren’t trouble. You need help. And you’ll be better. Someday. You need to take your time.”  
“And you won’t leave?” Sherlock looked at John, his eye filled with fear.  
John touched his face and smiled. “Of course not. You won’t get rid of me. Never.”  
Sherlock smiled. “I love you.”  
“I love you.” John pecked him softly on the lips.  
Sherlock snuggled his head back onto John’s shoulder. His emotions were still in a turmoil, but he felt safe here sitting between John and Mycroft.  
“Can I get you something?” Mycroft asked.  
“I want a chocolate milkshake,” Sherlock said.  
“Really?” John asked.  
“Let’s try.”  
“We don’t have to,” John said. “If you aren’t ready . . .”  
“No. I want to try.”  
Mycroft pulled out his mobile. “Anthea . . . I need to know where the best milkshakes in London are to be found. Text me.”  
Two minutes later, Mycroft’s mobile dinged and Mycroft gave an address to the driver.  
When they arrived, John looked at Sherlock. “We don’t have to do this.”  
“I know. I want to try.”  
“Okay.”  
All of them got out. Mycroft’s man held the door open as they entered the small restaurant. There were few customers. The four of them sat down. Mycroft ordered tea as did John and the driver and a huge chocolate milkshake for Sherlock.  
John reached under the table and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “You okay?”  
“So far,” Sherlock said. He felt his heart starting to pound, but he kept his eyes down and took deep breaths to calm himself. He took a drink of his milkshake from the straw John had set in it.  
“Good?” John asked as he blew on his tea.  
“Anthea knew what she was talking about. Thank her for me, will you?” he asked Mycroft.  
“I will. The tea isn’t even too bad.”  
Sherlock smiled. “A five-star rating from Mycroft.”  
John laughed and Mycroft smiled. “Indeed, Little Brother.”  
Sherlock looked around. He could tell several of the patrons were looking at him and then looking away. They’d obviously seen the television reports and maybe seen the video of his captivity. He felt like sliding under the table, like screaming at them to stop staring. But he had to be strong for John. Mary couldn’t win. He couldn’t let her win for John. For his John, he would be strong. He sat up a bit straighter and drank more of his milkshake. He squeezed John’s hand.  
John looked up at him, but Sherlock seemed concentrated on his drink. He could feel the tiny tremors in Sherlock’s hand. He knew he was anxious but was trying so hard to be brave.  
“You okay?”  
“I have to go to the loo,” Sherlock said quietly.  
“Oh. I’ll take you.”  
When John shut the door to the loo, he turned to Sherlock and helped him get his trousers and nappy down. “How are you making out?”  
“I haven’t started yet. Don’t look at me. I don’t think I can pee with you looking at me.”  
John smiled and turned around. “I know this is really hard for you. Being in public.”  
“I looked up. Almost everyone looked away when I glanced at them. They know who I am.”  
“Well . . . you are quite famous. People are curious. Though it’s incredibly rude. Want me to say something?”  
“No. I have to get used to it. Even if I wasn’t known, people would still stare at the scars on my face.”  
“Sherlock . . .”  
“It’s alright, John. I know that I’m . . . different now. Like I said, I have to get used to it. I wish I had my Belstaff. If I could pop my collar and duck my head, no one could see. I’m finished.”  
John pulled up the nappy and his trousers and put him in his wheelchair. He wheeled him out, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands.  
They returned to the table and John set Sherlock down. He finished his milkshake.  
“Do you want another?” Mycroft asked.  
“Strawberry this time.”  
Mycroft waved the waitress over and ordered tea for everyone else and another milkshake for Sherlock. They sat and drank as the restaurant began to fill.  
Sherlock tried to ignore the other people. He saw a woman in the booth in front of them pull out her mobile and pretend to check her messages while taking his picture. He decided to give them a show, as this would no doubt be in the paper.  
“John,” he whispered. “The woman in the next booth is taking my picture.”  
John started to get up.   
“No. It’s okay. Kiss me.”  
“What?”  
“Let’s give them a show.”  
John smiled. “You think we should?”  
“Why not?”  
John bent over and kissed Sherlock on the lips. He pulled away and saw the woman not even trying to hide the fact that she was taking a picture. Sherlock touched his forehead to John’s and smiled. As he couldn’t see, he asked him. “Is she taking pictures?”  
“Big time.”  
“Prepare to be in the paper tomorrow.”  
“Oh no,” John said, looking concerned. “What if Rosie sees it? Or some of her friends?”  
“I never thought of it,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry, John.”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Mycroft said as he sipped his tea. “I’ll take care of it. I don’t blame you for wanting to play with them but think about it next time.”  
“See it pays to have the British government as your brother,” Sherlock said, smiling.  
Sherlock finished his milkshake as several of Mycroft’s men came through the door.  
“Why don’t you and John go out to the car. I’ll join you in a few moments,” Mycroft said.  
John and Sherlock sat in the car and, true to his word, Mycroft joined them in a few moments. “All taken care of. Shall we return to 221B?”  
“Did you get the kitten for Rosie?”  
“Yes. It will be delivered right before she gets home.”  
“Thank you, My. You’ve done so much for me.”  
“I want you to be happy, Sherlock. I want you to have everything you need.”  
“I do now,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s hand. “I have exactly what I wanted.”  
“And I’m happy for you. I’ve always wanted you to feel the way I felt.”  
“I do. And I always will.”  
John smiled. “Me too.”  
When they arrived home, Sherlock thanked Mycroft again, who couldn’t come in because he needed to get to the office. John took Sherlock upstairs and laid him down on the sofa.  
He made him some tea and sat down, pulling Sherlock’s head into his lap as they watched telly.  
“Are you alright?” John asked as he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You were so upset. I want you to tell me if you are.”  
“I was upset. I needed it, though. I needed to ask her why she did it. But it’s something I can’t change, John. It’s over and done. I knew it would have to happen at some point. I wanted it over now so I can start to get over it. I can’t get upset every time Rosie mentions her mother. She has every right to talk about her. I don’t want to upset her.”  
“You did this — you put yourself through this for Rosie?”  
“Of course. And for me. Rosie’s part of my family, and she’s just a little girl.”  
“Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you.”  
“I know I upset you too. I’m sorry for that.”  
“I was upset but only by what she said to you. I don’t want her to hurt you anymore.”  
“I won’t go again. I just want to go forward with you. She . . . she didn’t say anything I haven’t thought myself. I know she did all this because she hated me for loving you. She wanted you all to herself so she needed me gone. She didn’t kill me because of what happened last time — because of how upset you were. What she did was worse. She did it even though I did everything I could to get you to stay with her because I wanted you to be happy.”  
“And because I wouldn’t admit to myself that I loved you. If I hadn’t lied to myself for so long, I’d never have married her . . .”  
“And you’d never have had Rosie or the new baby. You wouldn’t trade them for anything.”  
“Yes. You’re right. But all the pain she put you through . . .”  
“It’s behind us now. You’re mine and I’m yours.” He reached up and squeezed John’s hand.  
“Always.”  
“You should eat your lunch. It’s late.”  
“Maybe just a sandwich. You should have your nutritional shake. Dr. Cooper will be here in a little bit.”  
“Okay.”  
They ate and John took Sherlock to the loo. Dr. Roberts examined him again before Dr. Cooper came.  
Sherlock talked to his psychiatrist about his trip to see Mary.  
“You should have discussed this with me.”  
“You would have said no.”  
“Of course I would. You aren’t strong enough to face her.”  
“I did. I had John and Mycroft with me. She said awful things, told me her plan, and how she arranged for Moriarty’s return from the dead just to keep me here so she could go through with her plan. She said death was too easy. She was right. This is much worse than death. Living like this — helpless and useless. Not being a man anymore.”  
“You’re a man. What do you mean?”  
“I don’t feel like me anymore. I feel like a child. I need someone to do everything for me. I have to be taken care of. John deserves a partner not a burden. How can I help him raise his children when I’m just another one? I can’t give him anything but kisses right now and I don’t know that I ever will. Once I’m allowed solid food again, I may have to wear nappies for the rest of my life. I . . . I just want my life to be like it was.”  
“I know you do but it won’t ever be exactly like it was.”  
“She was so right. She taunted me saying that I’d never want to leave here. That I’d force John to stay here and never get out. So I insisted on stopping. We went into a restaurant.”  
“You went to a restaurant? Good. How was it?”  
“I hated it. I hated that people stared at me. Some took pictures. They all had pity in their eyes. But I had to do it. I have to make myself do it for John. I feel like I’m ruining his life. I feel like I should be brave enough to send him away now that he’s free from Mary. I think he needs to be free of me too.”  
“It’s good that you made the step, but if doing it upset you so much, you shouldn’t force yourself to do it. You have to be ready for it.”  
“Mary made sure everyone knew what I looked like. She released the torture video online. Everyone’s seen me screaming and crying and getting raped. Of course they want to stare. But I can’t let John down. He’s staying with me because he feels guilty, at least partly, and I can’t ruin his life anymore than I already have.”  
“Sherlock, you’ve sacrificed everything for him. You’ve given up your life several times to protect him. Why do you want to keep sacrificing?”  
“It’s not a sacrifice. It’s me being stupid and cowardly.”  
“It’s not cowardly to not want to be stared at by people who should know better.”  
“Yes, it is. I owe it to John. I owe him as normal a life as I can provide him.”  
“You can’t slow your recovery by doing things you aren’t ready for.”  
“It doesn’t matter about me. I want to change. I need to prove that she’s wrong. I need to give John a good life. I need you to help me get ready. I want to be able to have sex with him without falling apart. I told him we couldn’t until after my last HIV test. I won’t take a chance of giving him that.”  
“You can’t push yourself too much.”  
“It’s almost six months before I have the test. That should be enough time to help me get over this.”  
“People heal at different rates. I can’t guarantee that you’ll be ready.”  
“I understand that but I can’t even let Dr. Roberts check my stitches without having John there to keep me from falling apart and screaming. How the hell can I expect to let John have sex with me without flashing back? Please help me.”  
“Sherlock, you have to think of yourself. You can’t live your life only trying to make John’s life better. You’ve got to try and make your life better too.”  
“I don’t care about my life. I only care about his. His happiness is the most important thing to me. There’re too many things wrong with me for me to ever be happy. But I can make John’s life as good as I can.”  
“You can’t have an attitude like that. I can help you feel better.”  
“Better but not happy. I have John. That’s all I have. And that’s really, really good. But the rest of my life is ruined. Mary made sure my body and mind were destroyed. I don’t have my work or my experiments or my music and will never have them again. Instead of being known for saving lives and solving crimes, Sherlock Holmes is the man everyone saw being raped on the internet. I have to do everything I can to pretend I’m fixed so John will be happy. If he left, if I lost him, I’d have nothing. My life would be over. I can’t risk him being unhappy.”  
“You can’t pretend everything’s okay to keep John happy. It’s not healthy. He wouldn’t want you to do that. This wouldn’t make him happy.”  
“You won’t tell him. I told him he could sleep with anyone he wanted to so long as it made him happy, and he refused so I need to be able to do this. I can at least try to give him a hand job until we can try something more.”  
“You can’t push yourself with this. You’ll end up doing far more harm than good.”  
“I don’t care. I need to do this.”  
Sherlock kept insisting, and Dr. Cooper agreed to start therapy for sexual abuse victims that he had wanted to wait to do. He made Sherlock promise that they would use half of the session for that and the rest for depression and self-esteem.  
Dr. Cooper wasn’t happy when he left. He was tempted to speak with John but knew he couldn’t.  
John came in and asked him if he’d like some tea. While they sat together, drinking. John asked him how his session went.  
“Alright. I told him about going to the restaurant. He was glad I tried it. He wasn’t very pleased about me going to see Mary. He didn’t think I was ready.”  
“You got through it. That’s what matters I guess.”  
“It’s not hanging over my head anymore. We set up some priorities to work on.”  
“Your priorities or his?”  
“Mine.”  
“Sherlock, you can’t overthink this. Dr. Cooper is an expert in PTSD and depression. He knows what you need.”  
“I know what I need too.”  
“Yes. Of course, you do. I just don’t want you pushing yourself.”  
“Let’s go to Angelo’s tonight.”   
“What?”  
“To celebrate you and Rosie officially moving in. We can invite Mrs. Hudson too. Give me the mobile.”  
“Sherlock, you just went out for the first time today. Don’t push yourself.”  
“It’s okay. Give me the mobile. And let me have the room. I’ve got a surprise in mind,” Sherlock said, smiling.  
John shook his head but smiled and handed over his mobile.  
John heard the lift engage. The doors opened and two of Mycroft’s men entered. One held a big bag and the other a pet carrier.  
“Ah, Rosie’s kitten,” John said.  
One agent went into the loo and set up the litter box opposite the toilet. He came back out and placed feeding and water bowls down and filled them.  
The other agent put the pet carrier on the table. John went over and opened it. He looked in. Inside was a tiny brown kitten staring at him. “Hey, sweetie,” he said quietly before he reached in carefully and pulled the kitten out. She meowed but once John sat down in his chair and started to scratch under her chin, she started to purr.  
“Hey, guys. Thanks for bringing her. My daughter’s gonna love her.”  
“You’re welcome, sir. I’ve got a bed for the kitten and a blanket. There’s a few cat toys too.”  
“Mycroft thought of everything. I imagine Rosie will want the kitten to sleep with her but just leave it for now. We’ll set them up tonight. Thanks again.”  
The two men left.  
John knocked on the door to the bedroom. Sherlock called, “Come in.”  
“Look who’s arrived,” he said.  
Sherlock smiled. “Isn’t she cute? Do you think Rosie will like her?”  
“She’s going to lose her little mind. Why don’t you hold her? I’ll go up and carry Rosie’s clothes up and put them away and take everything else up.”  
“Sure. Angelo’s is all arranged. Mrs. Hudson’s coming. And I asked Molly and Greg to come too. Brad can cat sit.”  
“You’ve thought of everything.” John handed the kitten over. Sherlock laid down with the kitten on his chest. She meowed and sat down, staring at Sherlock with her little head tilted to the side.  
John laughed. “She’s sizing you up.”  
“Maybe she knows I’m a dog person.” Sherlock looked back at her. “Welcome to the family,” he said. She stood up, stretched, and rubbed her nose against Sherlock’s nose before settling back down on his chest and falling asleep. “I think I’ve been okayed.”  
John laughed and left the room. Forty-five minutes later, he’d gotten everything put away so Rosie could sleep in her new room. He went back downstairs and found both Sherlock and the kitten sound asleep. He bent down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. He was drinking a cup of tea when he heard the lift start. He put the pet carrier on the kitchen floor behind the table.  
When the doors opened, he held out his arms. “Hello, sweetie.”  
Rosie ran into John’s arms. “Hi, Papa!”  
“Did you have a good day?”  
“Yeah, it was good. Guess what? No homework.”  
“That’s good. We’re going out for dinner tonight.”  
“How come?”  
“Sherlock wanted to celebrate that we’re here. We’re going to Angelo’s with Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg. I moved everything up to your room so you can sleep up there tonight. Tomorrow we can hang pictures and move things around. How does that sound?”  
“That sounds good,” she said with a huge smile on her face.  
“Rosie! Is that you?” they heard Sherlock say from the bedroom.  
“Coming, Uncle Sherlock,” she said.  
“I’ve got a welcome home present for you,” Sherlock called.  
“Really? What is it?” Rosie said as she stepped through the door. She stopped and looked at the little bundle of fur on Sherlock’s chest.  
“Rosie, I’d like you to meet your new pet,” Sherlock said smiling.   
The kitten opened her eyes and looked up at Rosie.  
Rosie’s smile was blinding.  
“Careful with her. She’s just little,” John said.  
Rosie crawled up on the bed and reached out to gather her into her arms. The kitten seemed to like having Rosie pat her and started loudly purring.  
“What’s her name?” she asked Sherlock.  
“You pick.”  
“Um. How about Aurora?”  
“After Sleeping Beauty?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Okay. Hello, Aurora.” Sherlock reached out and patted her.  
“Do you like her?” John asked.  
“I love her, Papa. Thank you, Uncle Sherlock.”  
“You’re welcome, Rosie. Brad’s going to stay with Aurora when we go out to dinner so she won’t be alone.”  
“I think there’s some cat toys in the bag out in the kitchen.”  
“Come on, Aurora. Let’s go play.”  
Rosie ran out with the kitten in her arms.  
“The kitten was a good idea. She’s so happy,” John said, sitting next to Sherlock.  
“Take me out to the sofa so I can watch them play?”  
John smiled. “Sure.”  
John lifted Sherlock up and carried him to the sofa. He sat down beside him.  
Rosie was laying on her stomach in the sitting room floor, laughing as the kitten played with a small ball, running back and forth.  
When evening came, they got ready and walked to Angelo’s. John had brought Sherlock’s nutritional drink so he’d have something.  
Angelo met them at the door, excited to see John and Sherlock and making a big deal over Rosie.  
They all sat down and ordered, talking and laughing. Sherlock was sitting with his back to most of the other patrons but could sometimes feel the eyes on the back of his head. He leaned over to Rosie after he’d taken a sip of his drink through a straw. “Are the other people in the restaurant looking over here?”  
She looked behind her. “Almost all of them. What are they looking at?”  
“Me. I’m afraid,” he said. He could feel his face heating up. He knew his face was turning red.  
“Why?” she asked as she ate more of her ravioli.  
“Because of how I look now. Because I can’t walk and everything.”  
“Really?” she asked. She turned around and got up on her knees on the chair. “Stop staring at Uncle Sherlock! Leave him alone!” She sat back down as every eye turned away.  
“Rosie!” John said.  
“What? They stopped, didn’t they? They were being mean to Uncle Sherlock.”  
“Quite right, dear. They should have known better,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
“They were being rude,” Rosie said.  
“You’re a good girl for defending him,” Molly said.  
“Right-o. Good for you,” Greg added.  
John didn’t look pleased, but he was angry with himself. He should have said something himself.  
“You’re not mad at me are you, Papa?” Olivia asked.  
He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “No, of course not. It was good of you to stand up for Sherlock.”  
“He’s the best uncle anyone could have.”  
“Thank you, Rosie,” Sherlock said quietly.  
“You’re welcome.” Rosie turned back to her food.  
Sherlock felt ashamed. A little girl had to defend him. None of his friends or John had noticed that people were staring at him. He’d felt it but no one had mentioned it. Maybe they were being polite. The drink turned in his stomach, and he felt like he might be sick. He watched all the rest eat and laugh and talk. He smiled a bit, but his mind was adrift. He struggled to bring his feelings under control. He didn’t want to ruin dinner. He needed to show John that he wouldn’t let it bother him, even though it did. He wanted to go home or at least hide under the table. But he’d have to control himself and his emotions. He saw John looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He turned and smiled at John. “Is your dinner good?”  
“Really good.” He leaned closer. “Are you okay?”  
“Fine.” He bent over and took another sip of his drink, though it was the last thing he wanted. He plastered a fake smile on his face and joined in on the conversation, ignoring his drink and the looks from John.  
When everyone was done, Sherlock signalled Angelo. The table was cleared of dishes and Angelo brought out a big cake. The icing had “Welcome Home John and Rosie” printed on it.  
“Surprise,” Sherlock said.  
“It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
“That’s so nice of you,” John said. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” He smiled at Sherlock. He wanted to kiss him but couldn’t in front of Rosie.  
“It looks so good,” Rosie said. “Thank you, Uncle Sherlock. Can I have a corner piece?”  
“Of course you can,” Sherlock said. She reached over and patted his hand.  
When Angelo started to cut up the cake, he gave Rosie the first corner piece. She waited until everyone else had a piece before she started eating. “It’s so good.”  
“I’m glad. Thank you, Angelo.”  
“Anything for you, Sherlock. You come by any time.”  
“I know you don’t want me to pay, but I insist this time.”  
“No. Never.”  
“It’s too much. I’ll leave the money. Give it to the waiters if you want.”  
“Oh, Sherlock. I’m sure they’ll be quite thankful.”  
When everyone was done, and Angelo reluctantly took the money, everyone had leftover cake to take home.   
Molly and Greg said good night at the door. Sherlock, John, Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson walked together back to 221B. John carried Rosie, and Sherlock had a lap full of cake containers. He was glad for the darkness as he stared at the containers. He wanted nothing more than to go home, go to bed, and cry. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t even Rosie’s bedtime yet. The day had been difficult. He was exhausted. He felt like he’d been put through too much.   
When they got home, Mrs. Hudson said good night.   
Brad greeted them as they got off the lift. John picked the takeaway boxes out of Sherlock’s lap and took them to the kitchen, putting the kettle on to boil.  
“Was Aurora good while we were gone?” Rosie asked as she took off her shoes and jacket.  
“She was very good. She played and ate dinner and had a nap. She’s a beautiful kitten.”  
“Uncle Sherlock picked her out for me.”  
“Well, it was really Uncle Mycroft. I told him what colour.”  
“I’ll thank him next time he comes. Do you want to see my room, Brad?”  
“Sure.”  
“Don’t be too long. I’ve got tea almost ready,” John said.  
The two disappeared upstairs with Aurora. They returned fifteen minutes later as John was setting out tea for Brad.  
“Could I have just a little piece, Papa?”  
“Just a little. You want some milk?”  
She nodded and sat down beside Brad.  
Sherlock was glad he seemed to have been forgotten.  
“You want some tea?” Sherlock looked up to see John smiling at him.  
“No. I have to go to the loo, now. I don’t think I better.”  
“I’ll take you.”  
“No. Have your tea. I can wait a bit longer.”  
“Are you okay? You didn’t drink much of your drink at dinner.”  
“I had one for breakfast, one for lunch, and two large milkshakes plus tea. I’ll be up all night in the loo if I drink anymore.”  
John smiled. “Come and join us at the table,” he said, pushing the wheelchair over.  
“This is delicious,” Brad said.  
“One of Angelo’s specialties,” Sherlock said, fake cheer in his voice. “I’m a bit jealous. I’d love to taste it.”  
John carefully dipped the end of his finger in the icing. “This won’t hurt you.” He held it to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock sucked the icing off John’s finger and moaned with delight.  
“That’s heavenly,” Sherlock said, sitting back with his eyes closed, savouring the flavour.  
The feeling of Sherlock’s lips sucking on his finger went straight to John’s groin. He felt himself getting hard, especially when Sherlock moaned. He felt the heat rising in his face as he hurriedly sat down.  
Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. “Are you alright?”  
“F . . . fine,” John said, his voice high before it dropped.  
Sherlock smiled a genuine smile this time and arched his eyebrow. “Are you sure?”  
“I’m quite fine,” John said as he rolled his hips, trying to think of anything he could to take his mind off of Sherlock’s body and how much he wanted it. How he wanted that gorgeous mouth on his nipples like the other night, sucking love bites into his skin, taking his hard length into his mouth. How he wanted to see the no doubt gorgeous sight of Sherlock when he came, screaming John’s name.  
His drifting mind was taking his cock into a very unhelpful place. It was so uncomfortably hard, and he knew he didn’t dare stand up or everyone would see.  
He thought of Mycroft, of cold rain, of the heat of Afghanistan. Slowly the problem was fixing itself. By that time, everyone was staring at him.  
“What’s wrong, Papa? Your face is all red.”  
Brad smiled and looked down at his cake.  
“It’s nothing. He’s just a bit hot under the collar,” Sherlock said, smiling wickedly.  
“Sherlock, stop it,” he whispered.  
“It’s not hot in here,” Rosie said, confusion evident on her face.  
“Well, your Papa does have a jumper on,” Sherlock said, looking innocent.  
“I suppose,” Rosie went back to her cake.  
John felt embarrassed but also saw the humour of it.  
Sherlock continued to talk as his mind roiled with emotion, with memories, with pain. But he kept the fake smile on his face and talked animatedly.   
When Rosie started yawning, John said, “I think it’s time for a bath and bed.”  
“Aw, Papa.”  
“You’re sleepy. And Aurora will be there in the morning.”  
“Can she sleep with me?”  
“Not tonight. Her litter box is in the loo. I don’t want her making a mess in your new room.”  
“Can she come in with me while I take my bath?”  
“Sure. Why don’t you go on up and get your pyjamas?” John told her.   
Brad started doing the dishes. When John went into the loo to draw the bath, he carried Sherlock in to use the toilet.  
“Want to go to bed?” John asked.  
“I should lay down. I’ve been sitting for a long time.”  
“Yes. You don’t want to risk tearing your stitches.” He washed Sherlock’s face and brushed his teeth.  
Rosie stood at the door and watched John help Sherlock. “Uncle Sherlock?”  
“Yes?”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“About what?”  
“I’m sorry you got so hurt. I wish I could take it away.”  
Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat and tears stinging his eyes. “Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.” He held out his arms and Rosie came over to hug him and kiss him on the cheek.  
“Thank you for getting me Aurora and for my room and for the nice dinner.” She pulled away from Sherlock. “And most of all for making my Papa happy.”  
Sherlock and John both looked at her.  
“Wh . . . what do you mean, Rosie?” John asked.  
Rosie looked up at John. “You love Sherlock, Papa. And Sherlock loves you. I know you love him more than you love Mama. You sleep in the same bed, and you don’t fight like you and Mama did.”  
“And you think it’s okay?” John asked.  
“Sure. I’m sad you and Mama don’t love each other anymore, but I’m glad you and Sherlock love each other. My friend Jessie has two dads, and my friend Elizabeth has two moms. It’s okay.”  
John hugged his daughter. “You’re amazing. You know that?”  
“When Mama’s out of the hospital, are you gonna get a divorce?”  
“Probably. Would you be very upset?”  
“I miss Mama a lot, but I want you both to be happy. And you too Uncle Sherlock. Are you and Uncle Sherlock getting married?”  
“Maybe. Someday. But not right away. And you’re right. I love Sherlock very, very much.”  
“And I love you Papa very, very much.”  
Rosie smiled. “It’s okay if you want to kiss each other on the cheek or hold hands. I don’t mind.”  
Sherlock smiled. “Well, that’s good.”  
Rosie yawned.  
“We better get you in the tub.”  
Sherlock called for Brad and asked him to get him ready for bed. Brad changed Sherlock into his pyjamas and reattached the IV. He brought him in a drink and his medication. Sherlock thanked him.  
He turned on his side. He knew it still wasn’t safe to let himself cry. John and Rosie wouldn’t be too long. Being alone at last, he tried to make some sense of the day. He had endured the very lowest and some very high moments today. He’d loved the fact that sucking icing off of John’s finger had given John an erection. He loved Rosie’s reaction to her new kitten and the fact that she accepted that he and John loved each other. And he’d managed to go out in public twice. He’d felt that he had to. Mary had given him so much to think about. He needed to put John first at all times . . . or he could lose him.  
John was all he felt he had to live for. Without him, his gray life would become black. When John was with him, the gray became technicolour. Without John, he felt blind and helpless, his mind in turmoil, his body broken. He knew it probably wasn’t healthy. But he had loved John for so long. Had needed him. And finally, John was his. And he couldn’t lose him. Not after all that had happened.  
He didn’t know how he’d do it. But the day that John left him would be the day Sherlock would die.  
He wanted John and Rosie to be happy here. He would try his hardest to make Sam and Brad take care of everything so John didn’t have to take care of him.  
He didn’t want to complain. He knew he shouldn’t lie to John, but he couldn’t tell him how unnerved he’d been all day. He wanted John’s comfort, but he didn’t want John’s pity. He didn’t want to appear too weak.  
He heard the door open to the loo. Rosie came bouncing into the room and onto the bed.  
“Good night, Uncle Sherlock,” she said as she hugged him tight.  
He hugged her back. “Good night, Rosie.”  
“Will you and Papa look after Aurora for me tonight?”  
“You bet.”  
“See you in the morning.”  
He kissed her on the forehead. “Have a good sleep.”  
John deposited Aurora on the bed. “She just did her business so she’s good to go.”  
“How reassuring,” Sherlock smiled.  
As John and Rosie left the room, Aurora stretched and yawned and crawled up on Sherlock’s chest. She looked him in the eye as she began to kneed his chest and loudly purr.  
“You are aware that you’re hurting me?” he asked her.  
She looked at him seriously before she curled into a ball and closed her eyes. Her whole body was vibrating.  
He softly petted her. Her fur was so soft. And she seemed to like him.  
John came downstairs after about twenty minutes. He went into the loo and then into the room. He carried the cat bed and laid it on the floor at the end of the bed with the blanket.  
“You certainly seem to have made a friend.”  
“She likes me.”  
“She seems to.” He reached over and gently picked her up, laying her in the bed and covering her with the blanket. She purred a bit more before she fell asleep.  
John undressed and put on his pyjama trousers before turning off the light and getting into bed. Sherlock laid his head on John’s bare shoulder, gently kissing the scar there.  
John pulled away to gently kiss Sherlock. He touched his face. “Are you okay? You’ve had a really hard day, love.”  
“I know. I . . . I don’t think I want to talk about it. There were good things too. Rosie was so great today. I’m glad that she’s okay with us being together. I’m glad she likes Aurora.”  
“So am I. It’s amazing she picked all of this up.”  
“She’s your daughter. She’s smart. And she has a very loving heart.”  
“She does. But I also want to talk about what else happened. Mary upset you, and she hurt you. She upset all of us. I’ve never seen Mycroft so angry. You can’t let her vindictiveness, her madness get into your head. She was wrong. She’s always been wrong.”  
“I . . . I . . .” Sherlock felt the emotions he’d been holding in threaten to overwhelm him.  
John’s arms engulfed him as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.  
“You pushed yourself too hard today. I know you didn’t want to go out yet. I knew you weren’t really ready. The restaurant at lunch was enough. I shouldn’t have agreed to dinner too. It was too much.”  
“I . . . it was okay. I . . . I’m alright.” Sherlock hated how his voice wavered. He hated how his whole body was shaking. He struggled to control himself.  
“No, you aren’t. You’ve been holding things back all day. I know your fake smile. It upset you that people were staring at you. I know it did.”  
“W . . . why can’t they l . . . leave me a . . . alone? I . . . it’s because they saw me on the n . . . news and the v . . . video online. Staring at my f . . . face.”  
“I know, love. I wanted to do what Rosie did. I wish I had. I wanted to go up to each of them and hit them.”  
“I can’t b . . . be so w . . . weak. I h . . . hated it. P . . . people will always s . . . stare at me. I . . . I’m so ugly now.”  
“Oh, Sherlock. You aren’t. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful.”  
“N . . . never. Mary made sure of it. I . . . I’m just lucky I’m not completely b . . . blind. To do that to someone whose body and mind you already d . . . destroyed. I . . . I was helpless. She hated me that m . . . much. S . . . she thought you’d be d . . . disgusted and leave me.”  
“Never. Oh, love, never. I hate her for what she did to you. I despise her and will never, ever forgive her.” John’s voice was shaky and full of emotion. “I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could make everything the same. I wish there was something I could do.”  
“You do it everyday, John. My life is at best gray. It’s always b . . . been. But you came into my l . . . life and whenever I’m with you, my l . . . life’s in technicolour. Without you, m . . . my life is black. I feel like the world’s gone away . . . like I’m blind.”  
John was silent for a moment, and Sherlock thought he’d said too much.  
“J . . . John? D . . . did I say too much? I . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . .”  
“No. No, love,” John’s voice was rough with emotion. “To know that I mean that much to you . . . It’s so . . . I’m so honoured to know that I’m so loved by someone as wonderful as you. And I’m so sorry that I waited too long to admit the truth. I feel so cherished, so loved. And I love you more than I ever thought I could love another person.”  
“I . . . I don’t know that I’ll ever feel worthy of y . . . your love. I never did b . . . before and I certainly d . . . don’t now. I never will.”  
“Sherlock, I love you. I’ll always love you. Please try to understand that you’re all I want — all I’ll ever, ever want. You’re perfect.”  
“Y . . . you can’t tell me you wouldn’t prefer me walking, using my hands, still s . . . smart, still a v . . . virgin.”  
“Only because of all the pain they represent. If I could take it all away, I would, but there’s no point in thinking about what ifs. It’ll just tear your heart to pieces. I know it has with me. I keep thinking what if I’d accepted my feelings long before? What if I hadn’t gone through with the wedding? I could have saved you all this pain. It tears me up to think about it.”  
“I don’t blame you. I never blamed you and never will. I’m just thankful that you love me now. I . . . I promise I’ll be better, John. I . . . I promise not to be so weak anymore. Brad and Sam will look after me so you won’t have to. I don’t want to b . . . be a b . . . burden to you, ever. I won’t let you have to take care of me. I’ll do everything to make life as good for you as possible.”  
John sat up and looked at Sherlock. “Oh, love.” Tears filled his eyes as he reached out to touch Sherlock’s face. “You’re not a burden. You could never be a burden to me. I like knowing I can help you. That I can make you feel better. And I don’t want you suppressing your emotions. I know the brain damage means you can’t control them. You went through so, so much. PTSD and depression aren’t things that you just get over or that you can force down and try not to feel. You’ll end up hurting yourself even more. I knew what I was getting into, love. I know that you’re going to be sad, upset, and that you’ll need me. I don’t want you suffering in silence. I know you have flashbacks. I know you want them to be gone. You want us to have a wonderful, happy life. So, do I. But you have a lot to work on. I want you to get better, and I want to help you. I want you to promise me that you’ll let me help you. Okay?”  
Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. He saw nothing but love and concern there. “But how can you love me like this? I want to be strong for you. I want to be a partner. I’m so afraid that you’ll . . . you’ll pity me.”  
“I don’t pity you. I feel bad that this happened. But I know you’re working so hard to be better. You feel bad because you’ve lost so much, because you’ve had so much stolen from you. But I want to help you adjust to this new life. I want you to trust me.”  
“I trust you with everything, John. With my life, with my heart.”  
“And you have to know how blessed I feel that you trust me that much. I just want to make you happy. I want you to feel that you’re loved and cherished and that you always will be.”  
Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. “I . . . I love you, John. But you have to promise that you won’t hold back. Tell me when I’m feeling sorry for myself. Tell me when I’m being too hard to handle. Tell me when you need me to stop.”  
“It’s depression, Sherlock. You can’t help those things.”  
“I don’t want you to be frustrated or angry with me. I don’t want you to . . . to leave.”  
“I won’t ever leave. I promise you. Not because of your illness, not because of what happened to you, not because of your scars, not because you have a hard day — never.”  
“But you should do things on your own. You should go out with Greg, at least once a week, if not more, just to have a pint and relax. Or go out with whomever you like. But please promise you’ll go out at least once a week with another adult. And I want you and Rosie to go to the park or to the movies. I want you to spend a lot of time with her too.”  
“We can spend time with her.”  
“And we will but you’re her Papa and she need you. Promise me.”  
“I promise. Whatever you want, love. If this is what you want, I’ll do it.”  
“Thank you, John. I . . . I feel better knowing that we’ve talked. I . . . I wasn’t going to say anything. I was going to bottle it in. Never let you know. I’m afraid, John. Without you . . . I have nothing.”  
“Don’t say that. Please don’t ever say that. I can’t promise that we won’t fight. Everyone fights. But I won’t ever leave you. I might go out for air but only to cool down.”  
“Anything could happen, John. You don’t know.”   
“No, I don’t but you’re the man I love. You can be sure of that.”  
Sherlock didn’t want to argue. The fear that John would leave would always be there because he couldn’t help but think he wasn’t good enough for John and never would be. John was kind and gentle, though he was passionate as well. He was handsome and funny and had the most wonderful smile in the world.  
Sherlock looked away from John. “I’m tired, John.”  
“You still don’t believe me. Do you?” John said, his voice hurt.  
“I don’t doubt you. You believe you’ll never leave. It’s me. It’s me who’ll drive you away with my selfishness. No one can put up with it for long. It’ll be me who makes you go. I won’t mean to. I won’t want to. But you know me, John. You’ve been so frustrated with me. You hated me after I came back from hunting Moriarty’s men. I . . . I almost took drugs that night. I almost overdosed. But My knew it would be a bad Danger Night and he stopped me.”  
“I never hated you. I never could. I was angry. I should never have hurt you. You did things to protect me without telling me. And sometimes it made me angry. Sometimes your unwillingness to think about people made me angry. But you’ve changed.”  
“My emotions, my mind. I’m never going to be Sherlock Holmes again. When I was a boy, Mummy and Daddy called me Billy. Mycroft, of course, called me William. When I went to uni, I started calling myself Sherlock. But Sherlock’s gone now. Maybe I should start calling myself Scott.”  
“Sherlock isn’t gone. You’ve just changed.”  
“I wish that I hadn’t. I wish I could be whole for you. You deserve more than this. But I know wishes and dreams never come true. They’re like Santa and the Tooth Fairy. I can wish all I want but nothing will change.”  
“I’ll do what I can to help, love. You can’t give up hope.”  
“Hope’s the same thing. Hoping I can walk and use my hands and that my mind will be back is pointless and useless. I . . . I remember that I was s . . . special once. I helped people. I made a difference. It . . . it was never all about proving I was smart. I did want to help people. Now I can’t do anything. I can’t be of use to anyone. How many people will die? How many crimes will go unsolved and criminals walk free because I can’t solve them? Because I’m too s . . . stupid to do it. I’m less than useless now. I’m just a burden to you, to my family and friends, to society.”  
“No. Stop it. I know it hurts. I know you were special. You were amazing and brilliant and fantastic . . .”  
Sherlock looked up at John. “I . . . I’ll never see you smile at me and say those words again, w . . . w . . . will I?”  
The look on Sherlock’s face broke John’s heart. He looked like a heartbroken child.  
“Y . . . you were the only one who ever thought that. And now you’ll n . . . never say it again.” Sherlock sobbed. He closed his eyes and pushed his head into John’s chest.  
“Oh, Sherlock. I will. I’ll say it all the time.”  
“B . . . but it won’t be true. You won’t mean it. Oh God, John. I . . . I want you to be proud of me. How can you be proud of me now? How?”  
“I’m proud of how hard you’re working to be better. I’m so proud of how strong you were today. I’m proud of you for accepting us into your home. I’m proud beyond anything that you love me.”  
“It’s not the s . . . s . . . same.”  
“No, it isn’t. I’m so sorry that you feel so bad about yourself. I’m sorry that your life has changed so much. You put so much store by your intellect. You ignored every other part of your body and nurtured our brain. And the brain damage took some of it away. Your mind palace is gone. You can’t deduce. But you’re more than your mind. You aren’t stupid. I know you think you are.”  
“My thought I was stupid before this. He’s right. I’m stupid now.”  
“No, you aren’t. Never that. You’ve only been home a little while. You’re recovering.”  
“I’m tired of recovering. It’s just a synonym for worthlessness.”  
“No, it’s not. Stop it, Sherlock. Stop this, please.”   
Sherlock looked up at John. He could see John was frustrated. And it frightened him to the core. John would leave. He would leave if Sherlock didn’t stop.  
“I . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry, John. P . . . please forgive me,” he whispered, his voice small and defeated. He hurriedly wiped at his eyes. “I . . . I’ll be good. I . . . I’ll be better. I p . . . p . . . promise.”  
John touched Sherlock’s face and lifted it up. He felt concern well within him. “What’s wrong?” He shuddered when he saw the naked fear on Sherlock’s face. “What’s wrong? Why are you so afraid?” Then it dawned on him. “Sherlock, are you afraid of . . . of me?”  
“I . . . don’t want you to be angry. I . . . I promise I won’t c . . . complain anymore. P . . . please forgive me. I won’t . . . I won’t. P . . . please don’t be angry. I’ll . . . I’ll do anything you want.” He reached down and ran his hand down John’s torso, inching towards his groin. “I . . . I’ll make it better. I . . . I’ll do it for you. I . . . I’ll make you feel g . . . good.” Sherlock’s hand reached the band of John’s pyjama trousers and ducked underneath, touching the length of his penis, which instantly began to thicken.  
“No, Sherlock. No. You aren’t ready for this.” John’s hand snaked out and pulled Sherlock’s away.  
Sherlock pulled himself away from John. “I . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I won’t touch if you don’t want me.” Sherlock kept backing up until he fell off the bed.  
John tried to catch him but couldn’t. He heard the crack as Sherlock’s head hit the nightstand.  
“Sherlock!” John yelled. He threw off the quilts and got out of bed, running to the other side. He knelt down as Sherlock lay on the floor. “Can you hear me?” He switched on the light. He heard scurrying and realized, in the back of his mind, that they must have frightened Aurora.  
Sherlock was twisted into a pile; his fingers were fisted in his hair as he sobbed. He was tangled in the IV line, and the IV had crashed to the floor.  
“Sherlock, love. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”  
“Donna be angry. Donna hate me, John. Donna be angry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock kept sobbing. “Donna be mad. Go back a bed, John. Leave me here.”  
“Calm down, love. Calm down. Let me look at your head. I heard you hit it.”  
Sherlock wouldn’t hold still. He seemed to be trying to crawl under the bed.  
“Brad! Brad, come in here!” John called.  
Brad came through the door.  
“He fell out of bed. Help me. He won’t let me look at his head.”  
Between them, John and Brad pulled Sherlock into the middle of the floor.  
Sherlock was still crying, trying to get away, whispering apologies.  
“Hold him still,” John asked Brad. Brad pulled Sherlock carefully onto his side. John looked at the gash under Sherlock’s hair. It was quite deep and badly bleeding.  
Sherlock was whispering and rocking.   
John grabbed a pillow and ripped the pillowcase off, pressing it to the cut. “Sherlock, can you hear me?” John said. “Turn him back over on his back,” he said to Brad.  
“Sherlock, I need you to follow my finger with your eye, okay?”  
Sherlock’s eyes were squeezed shut.  
“Open your eyes. Open your eyes, please.”  
Sherlock was beginning to hum as he rocked. John’s heart clenched in his chest. “Open your eyes for me, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock opened his eyes. His right eye was unfocused. He opened his mouth as his whole body seemed to clench. Brad pulled him onto his side just as he vomited.   
“Concussion,” John said.  
Brad held him as he vomited until his stomach was empty. John asked Brad to give him his mobile to call an ambulance. Brad went into the loo and grabbed a towel, cleaning up the vomit.  
“Go get me your kit. I’ll need to get his readings.”  
Brad carefully rolled Sherlock back onto his back.  
“999. Can I help you?” John heard from his mobile.  
“Need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street. My partner fell out of bed and hit his head. There’s a gash there, and there’s signs of concussion. He’s vomited and doesn’t seem to be able to understand me or respond. His eye is non-responsive and unfocussed. I’ll get you his vitals in just a moment.”  
“Are you a doctor, sir?”  
“Yes. I’ve got his caregiver here, too.”  
Brad took his blood pressure. “110/60, pulse is 40.”  
“The ambulance has been dispatched, sir.”  
“Thanks.”  
“Can you go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson to come up to stay with Rosie and wait for the ambulance?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
John took off his sleep trousers and pulled on a pair of trousers, his shoes, and a sweater. He returned to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and he was still humming and rocking, occasionally throwing in a ‘I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry. Don’t be angry.’”  
“Oh, love,” John said, his heart in his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry. I promise you. I want you to tell me everything. I don’t want you to feel bad. Please don’t be hurt. Please forgive me.”  
Sherlock seemed not to have heard him.  
John wanted to pull him into his arms, but he was afraid. Sherlock might have a neck injury. He held his hand, pulling it to his chest.   
“I love you. I love you so much.”  
Sherlock moaned as he rocked.  
“Lay still, love.” John tried to hold him down.  
“No!” Sherlock screamed. “Don’t hurt me, please. No more. Please. John! John, help me!”  
John pulled his hands away like they were scalded. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe.”  
Sherlock seemed to settle. John heard the ambulance pull up. The lift engaged and the paramedics hurried into the room.  
They moved John out of the way and questioned him. They put a collar around his neck and rolled him onto a backboard before lifting him onto the gurney.  
The lift came again and Brad and Mrs. Hudson came into the room.  
“Oh, dear. Is he alright?”  
“A concussion,” John said, his voice wavering.  
“Oh John,” she reached out and touched his arm.  
“Let’s go,” the EMT said.  
John followed them down in the lift. His knees were weak, and he felt like collapsing. He’d done this to Sherlock. He hadn’t meant to. He had scared Sherlock so badly he’d thrown himself backwards and hit his head. If there was more brain damage because of him, he’d never, ever forgive himself.  
As the EMTs loaded Sherlock into the ambulance, John tried to get in himself but collapsed to his knees.  
“Sir, are you alright?” one of the EMTs asked.  
“Just a bit weak.” They helped him into the ambulance.  
The ride seemed to take forever. John held Sherlock’s hand with one hand and with the other ran his fingers through his hair.  
“Sir. I’ll need to check his eyes.”  
“He has a false eye in the left socket,” John said, not taking his eyes off Sherlock’s face. He had passed out coming down in the lift.  
As they got out of the ambulance at the A&E, John jumped down and felt his leg collapse beneath him again. He ended up on his hands and knees, breathing harshly.  
One of the EMTs hurried Sherlock through the doors as the other helped John to his feet. Two nurses came to the door. “Get me a wheelchair!” the EMT yelled.  
“No. I’m okay. Let me up.”  
“No, sir. You’ve collapsed twice.”   
The EMT and one of the nurses helped him into the wheelchair. “I’m alright. I have to see how Sherlock is.”  
“No, sir. Not until after a doctor has seen you,” the nurse said. She wheeled him into one of the rooms and helped him into the bed.  
“Please. I need to know if Sherlock’s alright. I need to tell the doctor what happened.”  
“The EMTs will do that.”  
“I’m his doctor. Please.”  
“I’ll see what I can find out. Are you legally married?”  
“No.”  
“We’ll need the next of kin’s permission.”  
“He has it,” John heard from the door. Mycroft stood there, not a hair out of place. “I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. I’ll wait here to hear about my brother’s condition.”  
“Yes, sir.” The nurse left.  
“What the hell happened to my brother?” Mycroft asked, his voice hard.  
“We were talking in bed. He didn’t want to talk about today. He’d gotten it in his head that he needed to hide his emotions from me. He’s afraid I’ll leave him if he shares his feelings — how he feels helpless and useless. He hates that he used to be special and isn’t anymore. I told him that I’d always love him. He started on about being useless and I told him to stop it. He thought I was angry. He started apologizing over and over and he tried to . . . he tried to start to have . . . sex with me. I told him he wasn’t ready, and I grabbed his hand. He started apologizing for touching me and backed himself up. I tried to reach him first but he slipped out of my hands. He fell off of the bed and hit his head. He . . . he was so upset. He thought I’d leave him for telling me how upset he was. I did this, Mycroft. I hurt him.”  
“My brother is very emotional now. It’s so new. He tried so hard to appear emotionless. It’s not your fault, John. It was an accident.”  
“I . . . I feel so awful about this, Mycroft. He’s got a concussion. If here’s more brain damage, I’ll never forgive myself.”  
A doctor walked through the door. “Dr. Watson?”  
“Yes, that’s right.”  
“I understand you collapsed twice.”  
“My knees just sort of went out from under me. I’m fine. I came in with my partner. I need to know if he’s alright.”  
“Your husband?”  
“We’re not legally married. He was just brought in. He fell and hit his head. Please, I’m fine. I need to be with Sherlock.” John started to get up and the doctor stopped him.  
“As a physician, you know you better lay down.” John reluctantly obeyed. The doctor checked his blood pressure, heart rate, his pupil response. “Feeling dizzy?”  
“A bit.”  
“A bit or a lot?” the doctor asked, raising his eyebrow.  
“Alright, quite a bit.”  
“Your heart rate is elevated and your blood pressure’s high. Is it normally?”  
“No.”  
“I think you had a panic attack. Take some deep calming breaths. I know it can be difficult when you’re upset.”  
John reluctantly began to take breaths. He felt better, he had to admit. When he closed his eyes, he felt the dizziness going away.  
“Do you want a sedative?”  
“No. I need to see Sherlock.”  
There was a knock on the door. The nurse came back in. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. I have an update. They’ve taken him for an X-ray. There’s definitely a concussion. There’s the possibility of a subdural hematoma. If so, the doctor will have to go in and drain it. They’ll know more from the X-ray.”  
“Thank you,” Mycroft said.  
“Oh God, Mycroft.” John got off the table and stood shaking.  
“You have to calm down, Dr. Watson,” the doctor said. “You’ll be no good to your partner if you collapse.”  
“Please just let me sit in the hall. I need to be near him.”  
“I’ll sit with him, Doctor.”  
“Alright. Any more symptoms, let the nurse know.”  
“Yes. Alright.”  
John gingerly stepped out into the hall with Mycroft and sat down heavily in a chair. Mycroft brought him a cup of water.  
“I hurt him. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t.”  
“I know you didn’t. You wouldn’t hurt Sherlock. I know you love him.”  
“But he’s hurt nonetheless. I swear he was afraid. He’s so afraid that I’ll leave. He doesn’t want to show any weakness in front of me. He thinks I’ll get tired of him. He thinks I’m disappointed with him because of his injuries.”  
“Sherlock has never had self esteem. He’s never believed anyone wanted him around. You’re the person he loves the most in all the world. So, you’re the one he’s most afraid of losing. And everything, any little sign that you’re not 100% happy, he’s going to interpret as you wanting to leave. He’s unstable right now, John. He needs you desperately but he’s afraid of that need. He’s afraid if he needs you too much, it might well destroy him if you leave. I’m sure of it. If you left him and never saw him again, he would die or go absolutely mad. That’s why you must be sure, John. You must be absolutely sure that you love him, that you’ll never leave him or you’ll destroy him.”  
“I understand, Mycroft. So many people think he doesn’t feel anything but he feels all of it. He feels too much. He loves with his whole heart and soul. And it amazes me that he’s given his heart to me. It’s the most precious gift I’ve ever been given. He never asked me to love him back. I don’t think he ever expected it.  
“I swear Mycroft, I will protect him from pain. I’ll protect him from everyone who wants to hurt him, even if it’s me.”  
Mycroft studied John for a moment and nodded his head.  
They sat in silence as John jiggled his leg, the water sloshing in the cup.  
It was nearly a half an hour before the doctor came out.  
“You’re here for Mr. Holmes?”  
John and Mycroft both stood up.  
“I’m his brother. This is his partner, John Watson.”  
“We’ve done an X-ray and a CT scan. There’s bleeding in the brain. He’s had a serious brain injury in the past?”  
“Yes.”  
“Severe?”  
“Loss of memory, loss of control over his emotions, cognition impairment. He was a genius before, but he’s had a lot of his abilities disappear,” Mycroft said.   
“Quite extensive then. His skull is quite fragile, full of hairline fractures as well as the main fractures. I’m quite leery to go in at all. But I’ll drain the blood, and keep our fingers crossed that there isn’t much further damage. Has he been epileptic all his life?”  
“No. He’s not at all.”  
“There’s indications on the CT scan.”  
“He’s had seizures with migraines. But just since his injuries.”  
“I’ll want to do more tests. I’ll let you know.”  
“Thank you,” Mycroft said.  
John felt like his heart was broken. He put his face in his hands and started to silently cry.  
“We don’t know it’ll be bad, John.”  
“He’s suffered so much. And now he’s back in the hospital. He’ll hate it. He hates it here.”  
“If there’s no damage, I’ll arrange for him to recover at home.”  
They sat for over an hour before the doctor came back.  
“We’ve managed to drain the blood. We’ve done another CT scan. There doesn’t appear to be any further brain damage. But we’ll have to wait until he wakes up. There is a rather serious concussion and we’ve had to open his scalp to remove some bone splinters. We’re going to keep him unconscious for at least a few days to give him time to heal.”  
“Doctor!” A nurse shouted down the corridor. “He’s seizing!”  
“He has a history of them,” John told the doctor as he and Mycroft ran down the hall.  
“Stay back!” the doctor said as he went through the door.  
John could hear the monitors screaming. He opened the door a crack. Sherlock was thrashing on his side as they tried to shield his head.   
John counted the seconds then the minutes as the seizure showed no signs of stopping. After five minutes, the doctor injected lorazepam to stop them. Still it was another two minutes before he stopped thrashing.  
“Get another CT scan. We’ve got to see what damage has been done.” The doctor turned and saw John at the door. “Has he been tested for epilepsy?”  
“No. The seizures are generally at the same time as migraines.”  
“We’re going to test him for onset epilepsy. The combination of head trauma is a likely cause if that’s what this is. Please go to the waiting room. I’ll be out when I know more.”  
John turned to Mycroft, who was looking at him with concern. “Epilepsy? Is that possible?”  
John nodded. He was white as a sheet and trembling. Mycroft took his arm and steered him towards the chairs. John nearly made it before his knees gave out. Mycroft caught him before he fell and half-carried, half-helped him into a chair.  
“The seizure was over five minutes long. If he’s epileptic, people who have seizures that long — 10-30% of them die within six months, Mycroft.”  
“Sherlock has always been exceptional. He’ll be fine.”  
“More medications. More homecare. He’ll hate this, Mycroft.” John looked down at his hands and found them shaking uncontrollably. He clenched them together. “We’d just got to a good place. He’s just starting to feel better. The physical pain was gone. We were talking. He still has so much to work through. And now another setback.” John felt the tears splashing on his hand. “How can he possibly bear this too? And if there’s more brain damage? What then?”  
“We’ll deal with it when it happens. Sherlock is strong.”  
“Damn it, Mycroft! He’s had to be strong all of his life because people treated him like he was a freak, like he was a worthless piece of shit. He’s had to suppress much of himself just to survive. He didn’t dare open his heart to anyone for fear of having it broken again and again. People thought him cold, uncaring, a psychopath, but he’s the most unselfish, loving person I’ve ever known. How much has he sacrificed for the people he cares about? If I hadn’t been so damned afraid to admit my feelings, none of this would ever have happened.”   
“My brother loves you more than anything in the world. You’re the most precious thing in his life. Be strong for him. We all have to hold him up. I’ve failed him so much in his life. He needs us now. We can’t afford to fail him anymore or we’ll lose him. He’ll sink into the depression and give up. We’ve all assumed he’ll be alright, but even Sherlock has his limits. He’s almost lost himself.”  
Mycroft reached out and took John’s hand. “Courage, John.”  
They sat there, hand in hand, for over an hour, rarely speaking. John, rather than finding Mycroft’s touch off-putting, found it comforting.   
They looked up when the doctor came out. “The seizures have caused more intracranial bleeding, and we had to drain it again. It’s looking fairly sure that there’ll be some sort of brain damage. He’s unfortunately slipped into a coma and seems to be struggling a bit to breathe. We’ve had to intubate him to ease his breathing and we have him on anti-convulsants. We’ve run an electroencephalogram, a CT scan, and MRI and done a prolactin test. They’re all pointing now towards epilepsy. The medication will be adjusted after he wakes up. I’ll need a list of the other medication he’s on.”  
“I’ll get that for you right away,” Mycroft said. “His medical history for the past few months has been difficult. He’s on an experimental pain medication that’s really working for him. I’ll get you the information on it.”  
John was shaking again. “Can I see him, please?”  
“He’s resting. I think it would be okay for you to see him.”  
Mycroft was texting, no doubt to Anthea, to get Sherlock’s records.  
John followed the doctor to Sherlock’s room. He looked so small laying in the bed. He’s head was covered in bandages and many wires were attached under the bandages. The tube down his throat was helping him breathe. IVs snaked out of his arm. They’d taken off his T-shirt and his scars shone pinkly in the light.  
They’d been talking a few hours before. He’d been telling him how important he was. And now . . .  
John pulled a chair to the bed. He reached out and pulled the blanket up. He took Sherlock’s hand. “Your hand’s so cold. Let me warm it up.” He covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. “Oh, love. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I frightened you. Oh, Sherlock. Please wake up. Please don’t be worse. I need you. I need you to be in my life. I need you. We all need you. Don’t go further away from me. Don’t go somewhere I can’t follow you. You’ve done that so many times to save me, to protect me. Please let me save you. You’ll never be alone. I promise. I need you, Sherlock. Please.” Tears were streaming down John’s face, and he sobbed as he clenched Sherlock’s hand and laid his forehead on Sherlock’s arm. “I’ll do whatever you need. I’ll take care of you for the rest of my life. Anything you need. Just come back to me, love. Please.”  
John felt his control slipping and gave in to the sobs. His poor, beautiful love. “I would take all of it. All the pain. All of it to give you freedom from this. I’d rather it was me, not you, lying in that bed.”  
“He wouldn’t want that, John,” Mycroft said, as he laid a hand on John’s shoulder. “It would break him to see you like that. You’re stronger than he is, John. You’re right about his heart. And you have complete control over it. He has never felt for anything or anyone like he has for you. Sherlock’s heart came alive when he fell in love with you. That’s why he faked his death. He would rather have you hate him then have had Moriarty’s men hurt you. It’s why he brought himself back from the dead when Mary shot him — he thought you were in danger. He’s undergone torture, humiliation, and even death for you. The only thing he could never survive is your loss. If something were ever to happen to you, Sherlock would be gone with you.”  
John looked up. “You think so?”  
“I know so. You’re his life, John. So long as you’re safe and happy, he can survive. He gave up so much. It really broke him when you married Mary. He went home and nearly used. I think he would have had I not been there. I held him that night for the first time since he was a child. He cried and cried saying he’d lost you forever. That month after your wedding, when he didn’t hear from you, I think was the most difficult of his life. It’s no wonder he turned back to drugs. He knew you were alive, and he thought you happy so he was willing to keep living, but he was lonely, isolating himself from everyone. He needs you like he needs air, John.”  
John looked at Sherlock’s face. That beloved face. In sleep, the little lines drawn by pain both emotional and physical disappeared. The awful scars on his face were terrible to look at but it was the face he loved, the face he would gladly stare at the rest of his life.  
“He looks so peaceful,” John said.  
“And he deserves whatever peace he gets.”  
“His mind is never that far from the warehouse, and he can never forget what was done to him. I see the pain on his face, in his eye. He tries to hide it. But it’s there. He looks haunted when he thinks I’m not looking.”  
“I think Dr. Cooper has been good for him, but he needs to work faster. Sherlock’s self esteem, his depression, his PTSD, his memories of the what happened to him, and his disabilities now add to it. The fear that some day the pain medication may stop working, and a chronic disease on top of it all. There is only so much a person can be expected to handle. And with Sherlock’s compromised emotional state, I fear for him more than I ever have. He can’t take any drugs, which is good, but I fear he’ll be too overwhelmed to ever recover.”  
“We can’t leave him.”  
“I’ll make arrangements with the doctor to stay for awhile. Could we move him home?”  
“Not while he’s intubated. I just wouldn’t feel right about it. When he wakes up, maybe. But we’ll need a full-time doctor and more supplies. You might want to talk to Dr. Roberts. Let’s hope it’s soon.”  
“I will talk to him.”  
“Can you call Mrs. Hudson? I’m sure she’s worried.”  
“I will.”  
John sat looking into Sherlock’s face. “Please wake up. Please be alright. Please come back, love. Don’t leave me.” His thumb caressed back and forth on Sherlock’s hand.  
A nurse came in to take the readings and check his breathing tube.  
“He won’t wake up tonight, I don’t imagine. If you want to go home, we’ll call you if there’s any change.”  
“No. I want to stay.”  
She nodded.  
As the hours ticked by, Sherlock didn’t move. John and Mycroft talked quietly as Anthea brought them cups of tea.  
John laid his forehead on the bed and was asleep in minutes. When he woke, it was nearly mid-morning. He groaned and stretched his back. He looked up at Sherlock, but there didn’t seem to be any change.  
Mycroft touched him. “He’s alright. There haven’t been any changes. The doctor was in. A new one. He’s a specialist on epilepsy. They’ve confirmed the diagnosis. Sherlock’s beginning to fight the intubation.”  
“That’s great. He may wake up today. That’s a very good sign.” John smiled. “Good for you, love,” he said.  
“Tea?”  
“Loo first. And I have to call Rosie.” John stood and stretched. He bent down and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.   
He sat on a chair in the hall and called home.   
“Hello?”  
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.”  
“Oh, John dear. How’s Sherlock?”  
“Still unconscious. But he’s fighting the intubator, which is good. He may wake up today.”  
“Mycroft told me about the diagnosis.”  
“Yes. They confirmed it this morning. Mycroft’s trying to get him released after the wakes up. We know he won’t want to be here.”  
“Yes. He’ll definitely want to come home.”  
“Can I talk to Rosie?”  
“Of course . . . Rosie, your Papa’s on the mobile.” He heard Rosie running towards Mrs. Hudson.  
“Papa?”  
“Hi, honey.”  
“Are you still at the hospital? Is Uncle Sherlock okay? Are you coming home?”  
“I’m still here. Sherlock is unconscious. He may wake up today. If so, he’ll probably be in the hospital for a few days. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Are you okay?”  
“I’m worried about Uncle Sherlock. Will you tell him that Aurora and I miss him and we love him?”  
“I will. I love you.”  
“I love you too, Papa.”  
“I’ll call later and let you know. I’m sorry I missed our day together.”  
“It’s okay. Just make sure Sherlock is okay.”  
“I will. Bye.”  
“Bye, Papa.”   
“John?” he heard Mrs. Hudson say. “How are you?”  
“Worried but it’s good that he might wake up.”  
“Did you get any rest?”  
“A few hours.”  
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”  
“I will. Are you okay looking after Rosie? I can ask Molly.”  
“Oh, no. It’s fine, dear. She’s down here in my flat. We’re baking biscuits and a cake.”  
John laughed. “Well that should get her good and hyped up.”  
“She’s such a lovely girl. You’ll let me know how he is later?”  
“I will. Thank you everything.”  
“You’re welcome. Bye John.”  
“Goodbye.”  
John stood and stretched again and made a quick trip to the loo before he went back into Sherlock’s room. Mycroft stood over him.   
“He’s fighting the breathing tube again.”  
John moved to Sherlock’s side. He took his hand and squeezed it.  
Sherlock’s breath was hitching as the air was forced in and out by the machine. He was struggling to take little breaths between the forced ones.  
John touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s alright.” He looked up at Mycroft. “Do you think you could find the doctor?”  
“Of course.”  
They returned a few minutes later.  
“He’s struggling. I think you can take the intubator out.”  
The doctor checked Sherlock over. “Yes, I agree.” He used the intercom to call for a nurse. A few minutes later, they’d removed the tube. Sherlock was breathing normally, but they put a cannula in his nose to deliver oxygen.  
Mycroft spoke up. “I’m arranging for doctors and medical equipment to be brought to his home after he wakes. Do you think he may wake up today?”  
“It’s possible. Breathing on his own is a good sign. If you want to sign him out, you can, of course, but I don’t recommend it.”  
“He’s spent a lot of time in hospitals and hates it. His frame of mind will be much better at home. I’ll have full-time doctors as well as his caregiver, who’s a licensed nurse. He’ll have the very best of care at all times.”  
The doctor nodded. “We’ll see. I’ll want to speak to the doctors before he’s released. But it will all depend on his waking up. It’s too soon to get your hopes up. After the seriousness of his seizure, there will be incredible pain. He will have pulled many of the muscles in his body. His head and neck need to be kept as still as possible. He needs to heal. He’s still recovering from the attack in the hospital.”  
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t heal before something else happens to him. The fact that he’s kept his sanity is frankly astonishing given all that he’s suffered.”  
“I’ve read his file. I’d have to agree with you. He has a good man working with him in Dr. Cooper. I went to uni with him.”  
“He seems to be taking his time. I know Sherlock is a bit frustrated. But he has a lot of issues to work through — a lot of his past and the traumas he’s recently suffered. Sherlock isn’t the most patient person. He always believed he could ignore the negative. And he did for so long. He closed himself off. And I have to admit that it’s partly my fault. I encouraged him to think that way.”  
“He’s gone through a lot in a short time. His body and his mind have paid the price.” The doctor checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to my other patients. I’ll be back later.”  
John busied himself checking the machines, pulling up the blankets.   
Anthea brought John a takeaway breakfast and a large cup of tea. As he ate, he watched Sherlock breath. He saw Sherlock’s face twitch.   
“Mycroft!” John said.   
“What’s wrong?”  
“His face twitched.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“I saw it.”  
“Could he be waking up?”  
“He could be. It can take hours for someone to come out of a coma. Or it could just have been a twitch. But I choose to believe it’s a good sign.” He smiled at Sherlock. “Don’t keep me waiting,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”  
John sat down and took Sherlock’s hand. “It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re with me. Mycroft’s here. Wake up, alright. We can go home soon after you wake, I promise. Wake up and our life together will start all over again.”  
As the hours went by, Sherlock laid still, slowly breathing. John was watching the telly when he heard Mycroft gasp.  
“What?”  
“His eye twitched. He almost frowned.”  
John looked up at Sherlock. The next breath seemed to hitch in his chest.  
“Sherlock. Can you hear me? It’s John. If you can hear me, open your eyes. Open your eyes for me, love.”  
For long moments, nothing happened. Then his eyes both twitched.  
“Good. Good. Just like that. Open your eyes for me.” John hit the call button.  
“Can I help you?” the nurse asked.  
“You should get the doctor. I think Sherlock’s starting to wake up.”  
“I’ll get him.”  
“Come on, Sherlock. Wake up for me.”  
“Wake up, Little Brother.”  
The doctor joined them soon after. He shone his light in Sherlock’s eye. “His pupil is more reactive. I think he’s coming out of it.”  
Mycroft and John talked to Sherlock trying to lure him awake. Sherlock began to move more, not only his face but his arms and torso as well. He moaned in pain and drew in a breath.  
“He had his injection. He shouldn’t be in pain,” John said.  
“His whole body is essentially a pulled muscle. This is on top of the pain he’s already suffering. If he hadn’t had the injection, I’m sure he wouldn’t be able to bear the pain at all.”  
Sherlock clenched John’s hand. John clenched back. “Come on, love. You’re so close. Open your eyes.”  
Sherlock groaned and almost jerked awake. He started breathing heavily, his eyes wide.  
“Sherlock. It’s me. It’s John. Look at me. Can you look at me?”  
Sherlock’s eyes turned to John. His eyes filled with tears.  
“Try not to move your head, alright?” John said. “Are you in a lot of pain?”  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t seem to. He looked confused and a wave of pain seemed to rush over him. A loud groan came from his throat as he clenched John’s hand again.   
“Sherlock, can you understand me?” John asked, dread rising in him. “Don’t nod your head. Just squeeze my hand if you can understand.” John sighed in relief as Sherlock’s hand clenched tighten. “Are you in a lot of pain? One squeeze for no, two for yes.” He felt two quick squeezes. John turned to look at the doctor. “Scale of 1-10? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9.” John turned to the doctor. “A 9. And he has a very high tolerance for pain.” He turned back to Sherlock. “Can you try to speak again?”  
There was a small sound but nothing recognizable as a word. Sweat broke out on Sherlock’s forehead. His teeth clenched and his eyes snapped to John. There was a terrified look on his face.  
“It’s alright. It’s alright. Calm down. Sherlock, you’ve got to calm down. I know it hurts. You had a very bad seizure. It was over five minutes long. Your body’s endured a lot. You’ve pulled muscles. Your pain medication isn’t failing. It’s just overwhelmed. I know it hurts. You hit your head. Do you remember?” One squeeze. “You fell off the bed. You have a bad concussion. It’s possible there’s more brain damage.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes. Tears trickled down his cheeks. His face twisted in effort as he whispered, “Please.”  
“Good,” Mycroft said. “That’s good.”  
“I don’t think you’d better push him right now,” the doctor said. “He’s overwhelmed.” He moved past John. “Mr. Holmes. I’m Dr. Clark. We’ll give you some relaxants so the pain won’t be as bad.” He turned to the nurse and asked her to get the correct drugs.   
“I have something else to tell you. We’ve run several tests and I’m afraid that your head trauma has caused you to develop epilepsy. We’ve put you on anti-convulsants. Your head injury wasn’t that serious, but it did cause bleeding and pushed you over the edge to epilepsy. It’s obvious you’re experiencing some speech problems. We’ll get a speech therapist in here to help you. I know this is a lot to absorb. I know you’re probably scared. It will be alright.  
“I understand from your brother that you would prefer to go home.”  
Sherlock opened his mouth and struggled to say, “Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“We’ll keep you in until we can get your pain under control and make sure the anti-convulsants are working. For now, I want you to rest. Your head is bandaged from the surgery we had to do to drain the hematoma in your brain and stabilize your skull. Try not to move your head much. He turned to the nurse. “Bring in a neck brace. It’ll help.”  
Sherlock looked scared. He squeezed John’s hand and Mycroft’s.  
“It’s alright, Little Brother. You’ll be alright. You’ll be home soon.”  
“Everything will be fine. It’s just a small setback,” John said.  
“N . . . n . . . noooot t . . . t . . . t . . . talk.”  
“I know you’re having a hard time to talk. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”  
“We’ll do another CT and MRI, see where the damage is,” the doctor said. “Please don’t worry. We’ll do absolutely everything we can to help you, Mr. Holmes.”   
Sherlock struggled to speak again and gave up. Tears leaked onto his pillow as the doctor and nurse carefully put the neck brace on him. He looked defeated. More so than John had ever seen him.  
The doctor said he’d call Dr. Cooper.  
John sat on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re scared, love. It’ll be alright. We’re here.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes as sobs broke from him. “Nnnnnnno . . . m . . . m . . . more.”  
“It’s overwhelming. Please. Please don’t cry,” John said. “I know it’s too much. You’ve suffered so much, love. Let them do their tests and find out what has to be done. We’ll do it. I’ll help you. I promise.”  
“Nnnnnno m . . . m . . . more. D . . . die.”   
“You won’t die, Sherlock. It’s alright.”  
“I don’t think that’s what he means.”   
John looked at Sherlock, his heart breaking. “No, Sherlock. Please don’t say that. You’re so loved. You’re needed. It’s hard. Just a little longer. Be strong just a little longer and it’ll get better.”  
“Nnnnnn . . . ever.” Sherlock cried harder.  
John felt the tears dripping down his own cheeks. “Please, love. Please don’t give up. Please.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand and touched his face.  
“D . . . die, p . . . p . . . pleaaaaaase.”  
“I think we need to get the doctor back in here. He’s upsetting himself too much,” Mycroft said.   
“Open your eyes, love,” John said. He touched his face, rubbing along his cheekbone with his thumb. “Look at me, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes and looked at John. “You’ve been so brave for so long. Let me be strong for you. Lean on me. I know you don’t like to, but depend on me. I won’t let you down. I promise. We’ll get the tests done and get you stable and we’ll go home. And I’ll look after you. We’ll look after you. If it’s not me, it’ll be Mycroft or Molly or Greg or Mrs. Hudson or your parents. We’ll be here.” He gently wiped the tears from Sherlock’s face. He brought Sherlock’s hand to his face and kissed it gently.  
Sherlock’s breath began to slow as he studied John’s eyes. The utterly defeated look on his face never went away.  
“Will you let me look after you? Will you let me help you?”  
Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and closed his eyes again.  
“Is the pain still bad?” John asked.  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“Are you thirsty?”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“I’ll get you some water,” Mycroft said.  
John adjusted the bed.  
“I know you hate it here. There’ll be someone here with you. We won’t leave you. Do you want me to stay when the tests start?”  
Sherlock clutched John’s hand, and his eyes snapped open.  
“Of course, I’ll be with you. Not in the CT or MRI room but everywhere else. I’ll be with you.”  
Mycroft returned with a large glass of water and a straw. John helped Sherlock drink.  
John sat stroking Sherlock’s hand as he and Mycroft talked to him, trying to pull his mind away from obsessing over where he was and why.  
Two orderlies come to get Sherlock to take him for the CT and MRI. John went with him, holding his hand the whole way.  
“Sorry, sir. You can’t come any further.”  
John bent over and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting for you.”  
Sherlock squeezed his hand, a look of worry and terror on his face.  
John sat outside. Mycroft joined him after about fifteen minutes. “I’ve arranged for the best speech therapist in London to look after Sherlock, and the best neurologist to consult.”  
“He looked so afraid. I . . . I don’t know what’ll happen if he can’t talk, Mycroft. I think this’ll break him completely. If I hadn’t snapped at him, he wouldn’t have hit his head. And he doesn’t remember what happened . . .”  
“Don’t tell him. Let him think it was an accident. He needs you. He doesn’t need to know that he was so afraid he’d made you angry and thought you’d leave. Let him have peace. He has enough to deal with right now.”  
John nodded.  
They sat talking about getting Sherlock home as soon as possible and how to deal with it all.  
Half an hour later, Sherlock was wheeled into the hall. John stood up and reached to take his hand.  
“Okay?” he asked.  
Sherlock nodded slightly, clenching John’s hand tightly.  
“It’s alright. I won’t leave.”  
They walked back to his room.  
“Are you hungry?”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“Lunch should be soon. More liquids, I’m afraid.”  
Sherlock looked tired.  
“Why don’t you have a nap? The neurologist won’t be in for awhile.” John sat beside him, stroking his hand until he fell asleep.  
“Why don’t you have a nap too, John? Sherlock’s going to need you when the neurologist comes.”   
“I’m alright. I’m going to stretch my legs, call Rosie, and get some tea. Would you mind staying with him? I won’t be long.”   
“Of course not.”  
“You should go home soon, Mycroft. You must be exhausted.”  
“After I’ve heard what the neurologist has to say.”   
“Can I bring you back anything?”  
“No, thank you.”  
John went out into the hall. He felt awful — tired, achy, and incredibly guilty. No matter what Mycroft said, he couldn’t help but feel that this was his fault. He walked upstairs to the cafeteria and got a cup of tea. He sat at a table and called Rosie, telling her and Mrs. Hudson what had happened.  
“Are you coming home soon?”  
“I don’t know. Sherlock’s very scared, and he wants me to stay. He’s in a lot of pain, and he’s really nervous about what the tests will show.”  
“Then you need to stay with him, Papa. I’ll stay with Mrs. Hudson. Me and Aurora are having fun.”  
Mrs. Hudson told him not to worry. She’d go upstairs and sleep with Rosie.  
“I’ll be home at some point, I imagine, just to shower, shave, and get a change of clothes. I’m scared about what the neurologist has to say.”  
“It’ll be alright, John. That poor boy has gone through the wringer. It just breaks my heart. He has more strength then anyone I know.”  
“I wish we could count on that. But he’s so close to the edge right now. He managed to choke out the words “No more” and “Die.” He can’t bear anymore. I don’t know what to do. I promised him I’d stay with him and help him. It’s so . . . overwhelming. He . . . trusts me.” John knew he couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice.  
“Of course, he does. He loves me. He trusts you with his heart. Of course he’d trust his body to you. Don’t worry, John. I know you’ll help him.”  
“I’ve failed him so many times in the past. I’m so afraid that I’ll fail him again.” He couldn’t stop the sob that escaped.  
“Oh, John. He’s trusting you. He knows you won’t hurt him. He knows you have the best in mind for him.”  
“I . . . I’ll try. I’m so afraid I’ll never hear his voice again.”  
“You will. Have faith.”  
“I’ll try. I promise.”  
“Good. If you need to talk, just call me, okay?”  
“I will. Thank you. Goodbye.”  
“Bye.”  
John sat talking deep breaths before he got up and walked back to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was sleeping, and Mycroft was sitting, holding Sherlock’s hand and talking quietly to him.  
“You’ll be alright, Little Brother. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure you are. I know I don’t say it enough but I love you. I always have and I always will.”   
John didn’t want to ruin the moment so he waited outside the door as Mycroft stood and kissed his brother on the forehead. It surprised John but he would never mention it to Mycroft as he had a feeling it would embarrass him.  
John waited until Mycroft had sat down before he came in.  
“He’s alright?”  
“Just sleeping. Are things alright with Rosie?”  
“She understands why I can’t come home right now. Mrs. Hudson was very supportive. She’s looking after Rosie today and tonight. I’m going to call Molly and ask her to look after her tomorrow.”  
“Hopefully, he’ll be home early in the week.”  
“I hope so.”  
Half an hour later, the doctor came through the door. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?”  
“Yes?”  
“I’m Dr. Simons, the neurologist. I’ve had a look at the tests.”  
“I’ll wake him.”  
John gently shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up, okay? The doctor’s here. He’s going to tell us what the test results are. Can you wake up for me, love?”  
Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly. He still looked tired and confused.  
“Feeling okay? Pain still bad?”  
Sherlock nodded slightly.  
“Hello, Mr. Holmes. I’m Dr. Simons, the neurologist attached to your case. I’ve studied the MRI and CT scans. I want to do a few tests with you. I understand that you have a problem understanding when people talk to you, right?”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“Can you write for me?” the doctor pulled out a writing pad.  
“He can’t write. His hands were injured,” John said.  
Sherlock looked embarrassed.   
“Alright. I have a book here. Can you read it?”  
John held the book up so Sherlock could see it. His eyes moved across the pages before he looked up at John.   
“You can read it and understand it?” the doctor asked.  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
The doctor brought over the table and laid out cards on it. “Can you point to the cat?”  
Sherlock looked and pointed to the cat.  
“Can you point to the sun?”  
Sherlock did.  
The doctor continued the test for a few minutes longer.   
“Can you try to speak for me? Say yes.”  
Sherlock struggled, his face contorting. “Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“Try no.”  
“N . . . n . . . no.”  
“Alright.” He wrote on the chart. “Do you feel any weakness in your right arm and leg?”  
“He can’t move his right leg much, and there’s nerve damage in his arms.”  
“Try lifting your left arm.”  
Sherlock did, though it seemed to hurt.  
“Try the right.”  
His arm only got halfway up before it fell.  
“You have expressive aphasia. You seem to have no problem comprehending or reading. And the right-side weakness confirms it as does the MRI and CT scan. Now the good news is that most who have this acute type of aphasia can recover at least some speech with a speech therapist. Most of the changes will take place in the next six months and is best when begun quickly. It can take two or more years all together. The brain tries to repair the damaged neurons. I’ll head up the team for your treatment. I understand your brother’s already got a speech-language pathologist in place. We’ll also get a few other professionals in place. I understand you have a psychiatrist already?”  
“Dr. Cooper will be here later today,” Mycroft said.  
“Good. I’ll want to consult with him. You’ll be his caregiver?” he asked John.  
“Partly. There was a doctor there during the day and two caregivers for the full day, but Mycroft’s hired another doctor to be there at night.”  
Dr. Simons nodded. “Good. Alright. I’ll get everything underway.”  
As Dr. Simons left the room, Sherlock clenched John and Mycroft’s hands.  
“It’s not that bad, Sherlock. You heard him. We’re getting you help and you just have to work on it and you should regain your speech,” Mycroft said.  
Pain flashed across Sherlock’s face. “It’s a lot to bear. More doctors, more tests, more therapy. I know you want this to be over. You want to be yourself again. You’re afraid you won’t be understood, aren’t you? You’re afraid you’ll be trapped in your head.”  
Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, a look of gratitude on his face.  
“I know you hate doctors — present company expected, I hope —” (This brought a slight smile to Sherlock’s face) “but you need them now. You may need them for the rest of your life. And I’ll always be here to make sure that you’re alright and that you get the help that you need.”  
Sherlock looked at him. “H . . . h . . . h . . . home.”  
“We’ll go home as soon as the doctor says so. Perhaps by the start of the week. I’ll stay with you. I might go home long enough to shower and change when you go to sleep tonight but someone will always be here with you. I promise. Is that okay?”  
Sherlock squeezed his hand.  
“Good.” John smiled. “You did so well with the doctor. I’m really proud of you. You’re so strong, love. It amazes me. Just never, ever be afraid to show your feelings to me.” He touched Sherlock’s face. “You’re afraid of what’s going to happen. So am I. Please promise me, you’ll let me know. If you want to cry, I want you to cry. If you want to get mad, get mad. If you want to scream, scream. Don’t hide yourself from me. Promise me.”  
Sherlock nodded slowly and looked into John’s eyes.  
“And I’ll do the same,” John said. “We love each other. We can’t be afraid of being who we are with each other. You made me realize that.”  
Sherlock smiled and clenched John’s hand.  
“Why don’t I leave you two alone. I need to get a few things in order and get a few hours sleep.”  
Sherlock reached out and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Th . . . th . . . thank . . . you.”  
“You’re welcome, Little Brother. I’m going to do all I can to make sure you’re out of here as soon as possible.”  
“I’ll see you later. I’ll be back tonight to sit with you while John goes home. Shall I bring a book to read to you?”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“I know just the one. Courage, Little Brother.”  
When Mycroft left, Sherlock looked at John. He winced as he moved slightly.  
“Pain’s bad?”  
Sherlock nodded slightly.  
“I’ll turn on the telly. Maybe the sound will help. When I go home, is there anything you want me to bring you?”  
Sherlock squeezed his hand. Then he looked frustrated.   
“Here. This is what we’ll do.” John pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. He quickly wrote out the alphabet. “Now, show me.”  
Sherlock lifted his hand and shakily pointed to letters. “TEDDY.”   
“You want your teddy?” This worried John. He hadn’t used it since his lowest days in the hospital. But John knew it comforted him.  
“I’ll bring it back for you. Anything else?”  
Sherlock’s hand moved slowly. “ICE CREAM.”   
“Any particular kind?”  
“STRAWBERRY.”   
“Alright, love.”  
Sherlock smiled at him. His hand snaked out again. “I LOVE YOU.”  
“I love you too,” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips.   
“YOU STAY WITH ME.”   
“Of course, I will.”  
“NOT DISGUSTED WITH MY WEAKNESS.”   
“You aren’t weak. You got hurt.”  
“LOSE ONE MORE THING. ONE MORE PIECE OF MYSELF.”   
“Not forever. I want to hear your voice again. I’ll help you work on it.”  
“DO NOT STAY IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO.”   
“Of course, I want to.”  
“GO HOME TO ROSIE. SHE NEEDS YOU.”   
“She knows why I’m here, and she says she understands that you need me.”  
“SHE NEEDS YOU TOO.”   
“I know and when we go home, we’ll be with her. She told me to tell you she loves you.”  
“I LOVE HER TOO.”  
John smiled. “You’re so loved. Do you know that?”  
“DO NOT DESERVE. BROKEN.”  
“Not broken. You’ve been hurt through absolutely no fault of your own. You’ve lost so much, but you’re still Sherlock. You’re my Sherlock. You’re more than your body, more than your mind. Your heart is still yours. And I love it so much, I love all of you.”  
“HEART IN A THOUSAND PIECES.”  
“I love each piece.” John’s heart clenched. Sherlock was broken. But he couldn’t let him think so. John did love him with all of his heart and always would, but Sherlock needed to know how cherished he was.  
“YOU ARE TOO GOOD FOR ME. DO NOT DESERVE YOU.”  
“You’ve done nothing but prove how much you care — how much you love me — since we met. You’ve done so much. You saved my life so many times and in so many ways. And the way I treated you . . . loudly saying I wasn’t gay, telling that berk Sebastian that we were colleagues, calling you a machine, walking out whenever I got mad, never believing you were capable of loving, hitting you when you came back, getting married to Mary. I’ve hurt you so much. And all you’ve ever done is love me. I don’t deserve you, my love. But I’m so . . . so happy that you love me.” He reached up and touched Sherlock’s cheek. “Don’t ever doubt my love. Please don’t.”  
Sherlock smiled.  
A nurse came in carrying Sherlock’s lunch. John’s stomach gurgled.  
“Let’s get you fed,” John said. The meal consisted of consommé, apple juice, ice cream, and tea. He slowly helped Sherlock eat.  
“Okay?” he asked when he finished.  
“JUST ICE CREAM.”  
John laughed.   
“GO GET LUNCH. YOU ARE HUNGRY.”  
“It’s okay. I can wait.”  
“GO JOHN.”  
“I’ll just run up and get a sandwich. I’ll be right back. You sure you’ll be okay?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John returned about ten minutes later to find Sherlock still laying there. “You okay?”  
“LONGEST TEN MINUTES EVER.”  
John smiled. He sipped his tea and ate the incredibly tasteless sandwich. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand as they watched the midday news.  
Dr. Cooper came in a few minutes before the news ended. “Sherlock, I was so sorry to hear that you were hurt again. Your brother said you have expressive aphasia.”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“The neurologist confirmed it this morning. The speech pathologist will come in this afternoon to assess and set up a treatment plan.”  
“Good. It will be difficult for our therapy to continue, I’m afraid.”  
“We have this. It’s not elegant but it works.” He showed Dr. Cooper the alphabet.  
“Good. It will be slow, but it’ll work. Now, Sherlock, shall we start?”  
“Do you want me to leave?” John asked.  
Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and shook his head slightly.  
Dr. Cooper sat down and John raised the bed so he could see him, laying the notepad in Sherlock’s lap.  
“You’re upset. I understand. What do you think the best word is to describe your feelings now?”  
“DONE.”  
“You feel done.”  
“NO MORE.”  
“It has been a very bad few months for you, Sherlock. And you have a lot to do to recover. You’ll have to start physical therapy as well so your arm doesn’t become any worse. The nerve damage may heal eventually, and you may get more use of your arms again.”  
“We’d been planning on starting strength training after he’d recovered,” John said.  
“Good. You don’t want to start with too much. It must be frustrating to not be able to express yourself like you want.”  
“FEEL LIKE I HAVE LOST ALMOST EVERYTHING.”  
“Understandable. Your body and mind are destroyed, in some ways irreparably, but you’re alive and you’re in love. You have someone who loves you and will never leave you. That’s more than most people will ever have.”  
Sherlock nodded and squeezed John’s hand.  
They talked for almost an hour until Sherlock was visibly exhausted.  
“I’ll leave you and let you get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Dr. Cooper took his leave.  
John got Sherlock a drink of water before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.  
John got up and stretched and went into the loo in the room. He tidied up the room a bit and set the lunch tray out in the hall. He sat and watched afternoon telly while Sherlock rested. He found his own eyes growing heavy.   
He didn’t know how long he’d slept before he found someone gently shaking his shoulder.  
“Dr. Watson?”   
He shuddered awake.  
“Sorry for waking you. I’m Dr. Louise Stewart. I’m Mr. Holmes’s speech-language pathologist. I’ve been filled in by Dr. Simons about the diagnosis.”  
John nodded. “I’ll wake him up.” John turned to Sherlock. “Sherlock. Time to wake up, love.” It amazed John how open he was now. It hadn’t been that long ago when he’d been declaring to people that he certainly wasn’t gay. Now he was openly acknowledging his love for Sherlock in public. His father would have beaten him almost to death if he heard. And it was Sherlock who had given him the courage to admit it both to himself and to Sherlock. “Wake up, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock stirred and slowly opened his eyes.  
“I know you’re tired. Your speech therapist is here.”  
“Hello, Mr. Holmes. I’m Dr. Louise Stewart. I’ll be the one working with you to help you with your speech.”   
Sherlock nodded slightly.  
“Can you give me an example of your speech now? Can you say John?”  
“J . . . J . . . Jawwwwn,” Sherlock said very slowly.  
“Can you hear the word in your head clearly?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Okay so there’s a disruption between your brain and your mouth. Your brain is already trying to heal itself so we have to do everything we can to help it. We’ll work together four times a week. I have a colleague, Dr. Scott, who can work with you the other three days. I’ll give you exercises that you’ll need to practice every day.”  
The session started with visualization. She got Sherlock to close his eyes and visualize how his mouth would move to make different sounds. They worked hard on it, and Sherlock was again exhausted by the time she left, and he looked terribly discouraged.   
“Don’t worry, love. It’ll be alright. I’ll help you with your exercises.”  
“TIRED. NO MORE DOCTORS.”   
John smiled. “Your original doctor might be back to check on you, but you should be okay for today.”  
After dinner, Sherlock wanted to sleep so he told John to go home so he could spend some time with Rosie before she went to bed.  
“Are you sure?”  
“MY WILL BE BACK. YOU SHOULD GET A GOOD NIGHTS SLEEP AND COME BACK IN THE MORNING.”  
“I don’t want to leave you that long, love. I’ll wait until you go to sleep and go home for a bit. But I’ll be back. So, you just want your teddy and ice cream?”  
“MAYBE ROSIE DRAW ME A PICTURE.”  
John smiled. “I’m sure she’d love that.”  
“CAN YOU SNEAK HER AND AURORA IN.”  
“Probably not. I can, however, take a picture with my mobile and bring it back for you.”  
Sherlock smiled. His eyes were very droopy, and he looked as if he could fall asleep any second. “KISS ME GOOD NIGHT.”  
John leaned over and kissed Sherlock softly. He stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “Go to sleep, love. It’s been a hard day for you. I’ll do whatever I can to make tomorrow better.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before his breathing deepened, and he was fully asleep.  
John waited for half an hour, until he was sure Sherlock was asleep for good and left the room. He nearly fell asleep himself in the cab on the ride home.   
He wearily opened the main door and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.  
“Papa!” Rosie yelled as she opened the door. “You came home!” She hugged him. “How’s Uncle Sherlock?”  
“Come in, John. You look knackered. I was just going to put dinner on. Come sit down.”  
John went in and sat at the kitchen table.  
“How is Sherlock?”  
“He had his first speech therapy session and a session with Dr. Cooper. It went well. He’s discouraged though. Rosie — Sherlock isn’t able to speak very clearly. He fell and hurt his head last night and it damaged the part of his brain that’s responsible for speech.”  
Rosie looked shocked. “Uncle Sherlock can’t talk?” Her lower lip quivered.  
“He’ll need a lot of therapy to relearn how to speak. He’s also going to need physical therapy on his right arm because it’s quite weak.”  
Tears rolled down Rosie’s cheeks as John gathered her in his arms. “We have to be strong and be there to help him. Don’t we?”  
She nodded her head.  
“It’s okay. I feel sad too. I want him to come home. And he will be coming home soon. In the meantime, he wanted me to ask you if you could make a picture for him to make his room look better. He wants me to take a picture — or, maybe, we could do a video. He missed you and Aurora.”  
Rosie wiped her eyes. “O . . . okay. I’ll make a real nice picture. Do you have any crayons?” she asked Mrs. Hudson.  
“I have some markers and plenty of paper.” Mrs. Hudson bustled off to get them.  
John felt the control he’d been trying to maintain starting to slip. He was tired, hungry, sad, and feeling guilty for Sherlock’s fall. He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over his head.   
He felt discouraged. He wanted Sherlock to be home. He wanted last night never to have happened. Instead, Sherlock was back in the hospital, in pain, and frightened. John wanted to hold him and whisper to him that he loved him. It was his time to care for Sherlock. Sherlock needed him. And he was damned if he’d fail him now.  
“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You look so lost.”  
He looked up at her and the concern on her face broke the last wall. He felt the tears well in his eyes and a sob broke from his throat. He wrapped his arms around her waist and laid his forehead against her stomach. He felt her hands on his shoulders.  
“Oh, John. It’s alright. You know Sherlock. He’ll bounce back.”  
“He shouldn’t have to. He suffered so much. He’s in so much pain. He begged us to let him die this morning. I’m afraid this will break him.”  
“Not if he has you. You’ll keep him right. Once he gets home, everything will be better.”  
“It’s all my fault. All of this. Mary tormented him and had him tortured and raped. Because of me. He fell out of bed trying to get away from me. He thought I was angry that he touched me. He’s so afraid I’m going to leave that he doesn’t want to upset me in any way.”  
“It’s not your fault. It was an accident. The two of you are just starting your relationship, and you’re facing things no one should have to face. You know each other intimately and have for so long so it’s not quite like beginning from scratch. But the two of you have so much to work through. You need to make time to love each other. To not think about Sherlock’s disabilities, about the future, about therapy, and doctors and medications. Be with each other, look into each other’s eyes, kiss each other, hold hands. You really need it. Every couple needs it. And you also need to rest.”  
“I have to go back. I promised him. I need to be with him. But I feel bad leaving Rosie.” John let go of Mrs. Hudson and wiped his eyes.   
“We’ll have dinner. Then maybe you can go up and spend some time with Rosie before you go back. Stay til she goes to bed. Read to her. Relax a bit.”  
John didn’t want to stay that long but nodded anyway.  
As they ate dinner, John thanked Mrs. Hudson for all she’d done.  
“Don’t be silly, John,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It’s wonderful having Rosie here.”  
John helped Mrs. Hudson with the dishes before he, Rosie, and Aurora went upstairs. They watched a short video, and played a few games before he got her in the bath.  
When she was out and her hair was dry, John filmed her on his phone with Aurora.  
She waved and said, “Hi, Uncle Sherlock! Aurora says hi too.” She reached out and waved the kitten’s paw. “We miss you so much and want you to come home. Papa says you’re having a bad time talking right now. So, we’ll help you. When you get out of the hospital we’ll make you loads of tea and bowls of ice cream. I have some story books I can read to you and we can watch movies too. All of us — you, me, Aurora, and Papa — can sit on the sofa and watch Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and Snow White, and Little Mermaid. Hurry home, Uncle Sherlock. Papa looks sad when you aren’t here. I made you a picture. Papa is going to bring it to you. I hope you like it. It’s of you and me and Papa and Aurora. I’m going to bed now. Papa’s going to read me a story. I’ll see you when you get home. Love you, Uncle Sherlock!” She waved again as she scurried out of the picture.  
John smiled and stopped recording. “That was a wonderful message. I’ll show it to him when he wakes up. Now . . . let’s get you to bed.” After a long story and a long snuggle, John turned off the light and came downstairs.  
He felt bone-tired and just wanted to sleep. He settled for a lovely hot shower, a shave, brushing his teeth. He needed to get the hospital smell off. He made himself a cup of tea and sat in his chair, looking out the window. He missed Sherlock sitting in his chair, his hands steepled under his chin as he pondered another case. Or sat there plucking at his violin. As many nights as he’d complained about the 3 a.m. concerts as Sherlock worked on a case, he knew that most times Sherlock was playing because John had had a bad dream, and he was trying to calm him. Sherlock could lose himself for hours playing like that. And that was exactly what he needed now — his music — to clear his head. But Sherlock would never play again. The violin was gone. Mycroft had taken it, knowing that seeing it would break Sherlock’s heart.  
“You’ll be home soon, love,” he whispered. He got up and put the empty cup in the sink. He went to the bedroom for Sherlock’s teddy bear and picked up his favourite book from childhood, Treasure Island. Maybe if he read to Sherlock, it would take his mind off the pain. He put a pair of warm socks in a bag with the teddy and book and Sherlock’s thick comforter. He looked down at the blood on the floor, a wave of guilt going over him. He went into the loo to get Sherlock’s razor and toothbrush.  
Out in the kitchen, he pulled out a plastic bag and put a container of strawberry ice cream in it. There would be a refrigerator on the floor at the hospital so it shouldn’t melt too much.  
“Night, Aurora,” he said as he summoned the lift.  
He stepped into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “I’m leaving now. You’re sure you won’t mind watching Rosie?”  
“Of course not. I’ll watch some telly and sleep on the sofa.”  
“Thank you for everything.”  
“Anything for my boys.” She smiled and touched his cheek. “Give Sherlock my best.”  
“I will.”  
“And get some rest.”  
He nodded and stepped through the door. He’d never quite had the luck Sherlock seemed to have hailing a cab, and it took ten minutes before he could find one.   
When he arrived at the hospital, he found Mycroft sitting beside Sherlock.  
“Hello, John.”  
“Mycroft. How is he?”  
“He’s been sleeping since I got here about an hour ago.”  
“Good. Today took a lot out of him. I’ll be right back. He wanted me to bring him some ice cream. I’ll go down to the kitchenette and put it in the freezer.”  
When he returned, he looked over Sherlock’s readings. “Everything looks good. He pulled the blanket out and set it carefully over him. The socks he put in the drawer of the table next to the bed. He pulled out the teddy bear and sat it beside him.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
“He asked for me to bring it to him. It and the ice cream. The bear helps him cope with the pain. And he needs all the help he can get. Did you contact the people who created his pain medication? Can we give him more?”  
“We can give him a bit more but not much. It will take the edge off the pain, but he’ll still feel some of it until the pulled muscles heal.”  
“That could take awhile. I brought a book. I thought I could read to him.”  
“Oh, which one?”  
John handed the book to Mycroft.  
He took it and smiled. “His favourite book when he was a child. I read it to him over and over again. Mummy gave it to him. He’ll enjoy hearing it again.” He handed the book back. “If you finish it, he loved Swiss Family Robinson too.”  
“I’m hoping we only get part way through the book before he gets sent home.”  
“Indeed. How was his therapy?”  
“Alright. It’s going to take a long time, I believe. I know he’ll grow frustrated, but it will take however long it takes. He feels helpless and that he’s lost control of himself, of his mind and body.”  
“I daresay so. He needs to find whatever happiness he can. That’s why he needs you. I’d always told him that caring wasn’t an advantage. But I have to tell you — and if you ever repeat it, I’ll deny it — but Sherlock’s been different since he met you. He’d shut himself off from so much of life. He tried to become emotionless. He cut people to the quick to protect himself. You made him softer, gentler. You made him care. And he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone. He’s been hurt by everyone and he’s taken revenge in some way or another, but with you, he’ll forgive all. I thought you’d broken him when you got married. He went for days without eating, laying on the sofa. The whole time you were away from him, he was so utterly lost. He snapped at everyone trying to help him. He tried . . . he tried so hard to rebuild the walls around himself. The drugs were to lose the feelings, stop the pain.”  
“I’ve hurt him so much. For so long, I couldn’t believe he was capable of love or even caring. We’d had an argument one time before we went to meet with that berk Sebastian Wilkes and Sherlock introduced me as his friend. I said we were colleagues. The look of pain on his face almost broke my heart. And when I asked him to be my best man, he was incredibly shocked to know I considered him my best friend. He had ruined himself, disappeared looking for Moriarty’s men, and did it all to protect me. And he thought that I didn’t even care. The last thing I said to him face to face before the leap off St. Bart’s was to call him a machine. That’s the thing he remembered when he was gone. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I did to him.”  
“Just love him. That’s all he wants.”  
John looked up as two men came into the room with another hospital bed.  
“What’s this?”  
“I arranged for you to have a bed tonight. Get a decent night’s sleep.”  
“Thank you, Mycroft. I’m just exhausted.”  
“You’ll be here for him if he needs you. There’s no point exhausting yourself. Did you have dinner?”  
“Mrs. Hudson made dinner for us. I went home for a few hours to see Rosie and get cleaned up.”  
“Good. If you get some sleep, you should be fine.”  
“I just wish there was something more I could do.”  
“As do I. I hate seeing him like this. The old Sherlock would so hate this. Could you imagine him laying there?”  
“He’d say, ‘I’m fine, John. Let’s go home.’” A sad smile came across John’s face.  
“Indeed. He’d insist that everything was fine as he hopped around with a broken leg and blood spurting everywhere.”  
“Or fainting from hunger and still refusing to eat. ‘I’m on a case, John. It’s just transport.’ How I wish he’d tell me that now. I miss him. And I wish there was a way to go back to that time again. To run around London together.”  
“To argue with him. Even when he called me names. Asked how my diet was going. It pains me so to know I’ll never hear those words again. Sherlock would never say them now.”  
“He’s changed. His entire personality is different. He’s not as closed off anymore. He has no control over his emotions, but the fact that he opens up to me . . . I never thought it would happen.”  
“It’s your presence in his life as much as the brain damage. I never thought my brother would find love. After my betrothed and my son died, I knew I’d never find anyone else, nor did I want to. But Sherlock was so traumatized by his childhood, I thought he’d closed his heart off. It’s not as it he didn’t have the opportunity. Men and women both threw themselves at him. And he spurned both, unless he needed to use someone for a case. But that never went beyond kissing. But with you . . . his heart came alive the day he met you. I knew you would either make my brother or completely destroy him. There were times I thought the latter. The nights I held him while he cried over you. When he died. When he went away for two years. When you were married.”  
“I had no idea he loved me. I just wish that I’d known. That I’d accepted that I loved him too. That I’d seen it before I ever met Mary. That we’d never married. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that Rosie wasn’t a happy accident. I’m sure she got pregnant to ensure I married her. She knew I wouldn’t leave her, leave Rosie. And the baby. It was the same, I’m sure.”  
“I’m sorry, John. I am. She fooled all of us. Even Sherlock.”  
“Not for long. He pushed us back together because he thought she made me happy. He knew it would hunt him. The look on his face at the wedding dance . . . he was heartbroken. I should have known then. I should have seen it. Sherlock has been nothing but selfless — giving up his own happiness for my happiness. And I was nothing but selfish. I know that now. When I look at every action I took. When I think back to all I’ve done. I don’t know how he can stand to be with me. I’ve done nothing but cause him pain. This,” he said, gesturing toward Sherlock, “This is just the latest time I’ve failed him. But I’ll do everything to try and make it the last time.”  
“He’d never have survived all of this without you.”  
“He’d never have gone through this if I wasn’t in his life. Because of Mary. Because I fell in love with her. She realized my feelings long before I did. She did all this to keep me — trap me like a spider in a web. And it was poor Sherlock she thought she had to destroy to do it. If only . . .”  
“There’s nothing that can be changed about the past now, John. Sherlock has the thing he’s wanted the most in all his life — your love. I believe that he’ll survive this because he has you. He’s been self-reliant all of his life. You have to convince him to lean on you. He’s strong but I fear his strength is not enough to deal with all that he’s suffered. He needs you. He needs to be home. He needs to feel safe. I can help you get him home and make sure he’s safe, but he needs you like he needs oxygen. Remember that. There is no John and Sherlock as separate entities, at least in his mind. You’re JohnSherlock, two hearts as one.”  
“That’s terribly romantic of you, Mycroft.”  
“I do occasionally get . . . sentimental,” Mycroft said, smiling.  
“And about your brother?”  
Mycroft had the grace to turn a bit red. “I’ve arranged for an annulment of your marriage to Mary.”  
“How did you get her to agree to sign paperwork?”  
“Didn’t. We have some very talented forgers.”  
John smiled. “I assume you forged mine as well?”  
“Quite. If you would like a copy . . .”  
“Just deposit it in my safety deposit box. I’m sure you can do that. I’d rather not see it.”  
“Consider it done. Oh, I have something for you.” Mycroft handed a photograph to John.  
He took it. It was a sonogram. The baby was small but clearly a baby.  
“Congratulations. Everything is fine with the baby. Perfectly healthy.”   
“I’m glad. I really am. Sherlock’s looking forward to it. We talked about having a baby together. Maybe someday.”   
“A surrogate?”  
“And Sherlock’s sperm. I want a little curly-haired child running around getting into things.”  
“And he’s agreed?”  
“It won’t be for awhile. The baby’s coming and I don’t think we should have two babies at the same time. And Sherlock’s not ready. But we’re thinking about it.”  
“Mummy and Daddy will be thrilled. I think you should. I’m using Sherlock’s considerable trust fund to fund everything. And I can fund a nanny. You’d need all the help you can get. Are you thinking about marriage?”  
“I hadn’t thought of it. I definitely would like to his husband. I don’t want to overwhelm him yet. I love him so much. But there’s so much to overcome right now. I want him to be physically stronger again. I want him to be happy, or as happy as he can be. I want us to build a life together.”  
“I don’t blame you for wanting to wait. Sherlock thinks he feels like a burden to everyone now. But he shouldn’t feel that way, and you need to help him see that he can help with the baby and Rosie.”  
“I’ve been trying to do that. He’s made Rosie so happy and she loves him. She told us that she was happy we were in love with each other. I wanted to keep it from her, but she figured it out. She sits with him. They get along really well.”  
“That’s good. He needs someone outside himself to keep his mind off of things. Off the pain, the humiliation. He can’t bear anymore.”  
“Everyone has a breaking point. When Mary sent him back his fingers . . .” John trailed off, appalled by what his now ex-wife had done. “I thought we’d lost him.”  
“I will never get the sight of him begging us to take him to the hospital to get them reattached out of my mind.”  
“Sherlock begging for anything is so unlike him. He’s always been so together. There are some times I didn’t think he was capable of crying. And it’s more than the brain damage. I’m afraid part of him is irrevocably broken. It breaks my heart. All that’s gone. It’s no wonder he feels so lost. He’s not himself anymore. I will miss that part of him until the day I die. I’m afraid that I’ll never hear that cocky, confident tone in his voice ever again. I miss it. I miss the old Sherlock. I miss what Mary took away in a fit of jealousy. Because of me. Because of me part of Sherlock was destroyed. And there’s a part of him that blames me for it. He doesn’t want me to ever feel guilty about it. He loves me too much to blame me.”  
“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know. It took months for us to find out about it. Letting it eat at you won’t help either of you. It upsets Sherlock, and I’m afraid it will make you bitter. No one needs that, John. You have to let it go. Think about your life at two hundred and twenty-one B. Your daughter, the child to come, and Sherlock. They’re your family. And they need you. I know it’s a lot to think about, a lot of responsibility. But you’ve got me, Mummy and Daddy, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg. You have Sherlock’s trust fund to live off of. You have access to the best medical care. It’s up to you to build a life. And if you need to get away for awhile, take a break, go out for a drink, let us know. We’ll be there to talk to, to stay with Sherlock and the children. We’ve all talked about it, and we’ve agreed. You and Sherlock will need our support and we’re prepared to give it.”  
“I appreciate that, Mycroft. I really do. And I know Sherlock does.”   
“We’ll always be there. We all want the two of you to be happy.”  
John looked over at Sherlock. He seemed calm and sound asleep. John felt exhausted and stifled a yawn.  
“I see you’re tired, John. You should get some rest. Do you need anything?”  
“No, I don’t think so. Thank you, Mycroft.”  
“I shall take my leave then. If you need anything at all, please let me know.” Mycroft stood and straightened his suit jacket. He reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Have a peaceful night, Brother Mine.” He started toward the door. “Good night, John.”  
“Night, Mycroft.”  
John stood. He took off his jacket and shoes and turned the overhead lights off, leaving the light over Sherlock’s bed on. He took Sherlock’s hand. “Good night, love. I’m right here if you need anything.” He bent over and kissed Sherlock softly on the cheek. John moved over to the cot, pulled the covers back, and crawled in. He turned to face Sherlock. He hated seeing Sherlock in a hospital bed. And knowing it was at least partly his fault. If he had been calmer . . . he just hadn’t expected it. Sherlock had been so desperately to keep John happy. To make sure he couldn’t leave. He’d have to do everything he could to reassure Sherlock that he’d never leave. He’d gotten him through today. For the next little while that would be his job, helping Sherlock through each day. He fell asleep thinking of Sherlock and his future.  
It was still dark out when Sherlock woke screaming.   
John threw back the covers and padded to Sherlock’s side. He was trying to move his head, trying to reach out. He screamed over and over. John gently took hold of his hands. “Wake up, Sherlock. Wake up. You’re safe. I’m here. Please wake up. Wake up.”   
It took him a few minutes to wake Sherlock. By then, an orderly and two nurses had come into the room.   
“It’s okay. It’s a nightmare,” John told them.  
Sherlock woke, wide-eyed, and trembling with fear.  
“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”  
“Ahhhh . . . ahhhh . . .” Sherlock tried to speak but couldn’t.  
“Flashback?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“The warehouse?”  
Sherlock shook his head, no. Sherlock pointed at him.  
“Me? It was about me?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“What was it? Did I hurt you?”  
“L . . . l . . . leffffffffft.”  
“I left? Oh, love. Never. I’ll never leave you.” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s tear-stained face. “Never. Ever. I love you, Sherlock.” John turned to the orderly and nurses. “He’s okay. I’ll calm him down.”  
As they left, John turned back to Sherlock. “Oh, love. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I won’t ever leave you. You’re my life now. You and Rosie and the baby. You’re all I want. Our family is all I want. I will never, ever leave. I promise.”  
Sherlock started to breath more regularly. The shaking stopped.  
“That’s it, love. Calm down.” John smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I promise.”  
Sherlock half-smiled and squeezed his hand.   
“Do you want something to drink?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John got some water from the loo sink and helped Sherlock to drink. “Feeling better?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“Pain?”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“Mycroft said you could have a bit more but not much more pain medication. I brought your bear.” He held the bear up for Sherlock to see.  
Sherlock reached out for the bear and cuddled him to his chest before burying his face into its soft fur. John heard soft, gentle sobs coming from Sherlock.  
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here for you, love. We’re getting you help. You’ve got a really good chance of being able to talk perfectly fine again. Don’t worry. Please.”  
“N . . . n . . . no . . . m . . . m . . .more.”  
“No more? I know it’s too much. I know you feel overwhelmed. I’m here for you. We all are.”  
“N . . . n . . . no . . . m . . . m . . . more. O . . . v . . . er.”  
“What’s over?”  
“M . . . e.”  
“You’re not over. You’re Sherlock Holmes, the best man I’ve ever known. The man I love. We have a whole future together. A whole life. You and me and Rosie and the baby and any child we may have and 221B and our friends and family. We have all of that. It’s alright to be scared and frustrated. Please turn to me. I’m here for you. If I could take all of it I would. I would in a second.”  
Sherlock continued to softly sob.  
“Please, Sherlock. Look at me.”  
Sherlock’s eyes stared out from behind the bear.  
“It’s alright.”  
Sherlock shook his head. He closed his eyes and cried harder.  
“It’s frustrating. You can’t talk well. You can’t communicate right now but Mycroft will get the absolute best. Here’s the alphabet.” John held up the alphabet he’d written out. “Tell me what’s wrong?”  
“CANNOT TALK. THIS IS IT. NO MORE. I CANNOT LIVE LIKE THIS.”  
“Sherlock, please don’t feel that way. You’ve gone through so much. More than anyone should ever have to endure. Everyone has a breaking point, but I know you can withstand this. I know you’ll be okay. You’re so strong. You’ve always been strong.”  
“DO NOT WANT TO BE STRONG ANYMORE. IT IS TOO MUCH.”  
“Let me be strong for you, love. Let me hold you up. You can be upset with me. Let me be your strength.”  
“I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO SURVIVE THIS. I FEEL SO DEFEATED.”  
John felt tears gathering in his eyes. “Nothing . . . no one can defeat you. You’re so loved, Sherlock. Hold on to that love. Let it give you strength. Don’t give up. If for nothing else, please live for me.”  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s. “I HAVE FOUGHT AND SUFFERED AND DIED FOR YOU. HOW MUCH MORE.”  
“I need you to live for me now. Right now, that may feel like the hardest think I’ve ever asked you to do. But I have to. Live for me. Live for us. Live for our family. Please.”  
The defeated look on Sherlock’s face grew even worse. “DO NOT ASK THIS OF ME JOHN. MY LIFE IS OVER.”  
“No, it isn’t. I’m going to make sure of it. And I will ask it. You can’t give up. I won’t let you. And because you love me, and in the name of that love, I ask that you live for me.”  
Sherlock closed his eyes. There was a choked sound from him. He seemed to sink into the bed.  
John stroked his hand, humming softly to him. “Calm down, hey? Don’t worry. I know you’ve suffered. You’ve suffered so much for me. Because you love me. All because of that. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be alright.”  
“DEAD . . . DRUGS.”  
“You’d never have done that.”  
“TRIED BEFORE.”  
“You and I. You’re part of me now. There is no separating us now. What hurts you, hurts me. Remember that.”  
“YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN ME.”  
“Don’t say that. I love you. You and only you for the rest of my life. You deserve better than someone who’s done nothing but hurt you.”  
“LOVE YOU. DIE FOR YOU.”  
“I know you would. I know. But I don’t need you to die for me. I need you to live for me. You have the biggest, most loving heart of anyone I’ve ever known. You’ve trusted your heart with me, even though I know I’ve broken it countless times. Your heart belongs to me, and I need to protect it from as much harm as I can. You can’t give up because I won’t let you. If you don’t feel like you can fight anymore, I will. I’ll fight for you until the day I die. Okay?”  
Sherlock looked at him and John could tell he was thinking. “YOU FIGHT FOR ME.” He looked at him quizzingly.  
“I will. I promise I will. You’re the world to me. You’re the moon and the stars. Remember that night when we were going after the Golem, and we were looking up at the stars?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“If I could bring them to you, I would. You’re more beautiful then all of them put together.”  
“UGLY DISGUSTING . . . SCARS.”  
“No. There are scars, yes. But you’re beautiful to me. You always have been and always will be.”  
“ARE YOU BLIND.”  
“In love. I see you. I see the you that I’ve always seen. That day at Bart’s. When you looked up at me. When you asked Afghanistan or Iraq? The first time those kaleidoscope eyes looked into mine. I see you. I see inside you and I see who you are. I see what you are. Yes, you’re damaged, both inside and out. But so am I. So is everyone. I don’t see the scars as deformities. I see them as part of you. I love you. I love all of you.”  
“MAYBE YOU SHOULD NOT. MAYBE FIND SOMEONE WHOLE. SOMEONE WHO WILL NOT BE A BURDEN.”  
“You aren’t a burden. You’re the man I love.”  
“BURDEN. YOU HAVE TO DO ALL FOR ME. CANNOT EVEN TALK. MAYBE NEVER. MAYBE NEVER MAKE LOVE. YOU NEED SOMEONE TO ENJOY LIFE WITH. NOT SOMEONE TO ENDURE LIFE WITH.”  
“I don’t endure life with you.”  
“ALWAYS WILL. ONE STEP FORWARD THREE STEPS BACK. YOU WILL GROW TIRED OF LOOKING AFTER ME. NEED SOMEONE TO LAUGH AND HAVE FUN WITH. GO OUT WITH. MAKE LOVE WITH. HELP RAISE YOUR KIDS. I DRAG YOU DOWN JOHN.”  
“No, you don’t, Sherlock. Your self-esteem isn’t the best. Your depression is telling you to feel this way.”  
Sherlock’s eyes were bright with tears. “I JUST WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY. I AM SO AFRAID THAT I WILL MAKE YOU MISERABLE. THAT YOU WILL STAY BECAUSE YOU FEEL OBLIGATED. I CANNOT GIVE YOU ANYTHING. I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO GIVE YOU.”  
“You have your love. That’s more than enough.”  
“NO. I CANNOT MAKE YOU HAPPY JOHN.”  
“Do you really think I’ll leave you? Do you think so little of me that you’d think I’d leave when you needed me the most?”  
“OBLIGATION IS NOT A REASON TO STAY.”  
“It’s not obligation. Don’t you love me?”  
“MORE THAN LIFE. BUT I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY. MORE THAN I WANT TO BE HAPPY MYSELF.”  
“I know you do. I want you to be happy. Just the same way. I guess then we’re stuck with each other until we’re both utterly happy.” He smiled at Sherlock and bent to kiss him on the lips. He wiped the tears from Sherlock’s face. “Oh, love. We’ll work it out. We deserve to be happy. And I’m going to do my damnest to make sure it happens. Try and rest now, okay? And no more dreams of me leaving.”  
Sherlock nodded slowly and closed his eyes. He squeezed John’s hand. The look of despair gradually went away as he drifted deeper into sleep.  
John relaxed slightly as Sherlock’s breathing evened out. He was so worried about him. Sherlock would push him away if he felt that John wasn’t happy. And the truth was he wasn’t sure he could go through life with Sherlock never getting better. He knew that living with someone as disabled as Sherlock wouldn’t be easy. He had been severely traumatized, and he was right. It seemed that for every step forward, there was a devastating setback. This was all his fault . . . every bit of it. Sherlock had undergone all of it because he loved John. He’d suffered and would suffer for the rest of his life. Mycroft had said Sherlock couldn’t survive John’s leaving. John wouldn’t do that to him. He knew he loved Sherlock. He always had. He kept telling Sherlock it didn’t matter about sex, and he knew it shouldn’t. But the thought of never tasting Sherlock’s skin, of never watching him as he came, learning the noises that he made when he did . . . he didn’t know about that. But pushing him would destroy any chance. Sherlock’s virginity had been stolen from him in the worst possible way, and it angered John.   
John would have loved to have been the first one to touch that alabaster skin, to introduce him to different positions . . . and he could still do that, but it would be different. Sherlock would be wary, afraid, tense. He would flashback. John would never hurt him but he knew Sherlock’s only experience with sex would make him expect pain. He’d been reading about rape survivors and their partners. It would be hard. He was going to talk with Dr. Cooper about the two of them having counselling together when the time came.  
“I love you,” John whispered. He got up and went back to his bed and settled in.  
When John woke, it was after seven. He got up and went to the loo. When he came out, a nurse was taking readings from the machines hooked to Sherlock.  
“Morning,” he said.  
“Good morning, Dr. Watson.”  
“Any change?”  
“No, sir. He’s the same.”  
“He’ll be needing his pain shot soon.”  
“Yes, sir. The doctor will be in soon.”  
John got himself a drink of water, straightened his bed, and sat down beside Sherlock. The bear was clenched next to Sherlock’s chest, and he had a troubled look on his face, no doubt a dream. He reached out and ran his fingers gently over Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”  
Sherlock groaned as his eyes screwed up. But as John continued to whisper and touch him, he relaxed back into sleep.  
“I wish I could take all of this away from you, love. Because I would. I’d take the dreams, the pain, all of it. All of it for you.”  
John looked up as Mycroft came into the room, followed by his security team carrying something and Anthea. “Good morning, John. How’s Sherlock?”  
“He’s okay. Had a nightmare. He’s . . . he’s convinced that he’s going to make me miserable and wants me to go.”  
“He truly loves you, John, and he wants what’s best for you. Right now, he doesn’t think that’s him. He wants you to be happy.”  
“I am happy with him. It’s not going to be easy. I know that. But he’s my life now. I love him.”   
“I’ve brought something a little more sophisticated then your piece of paper. It’s a computer. I think he has enough control to type with one finger and get the computer to speak.”  
“That’s great. He’ll love it.”  
“And I’ve brought you some tea and breakfast,” Anthea said, handing him a bag and a cup.  
“Ta.” John sat back and ate quickly. The tea really hit the spot. “Will you sit here with him? I want to call Rosie.”  
“Of course.”  
John stood and went out to the hall. Rosie was happy to hear from him and told him Mrs. Hudson was taking her to a movie and to lunch. He told her to have fun and that he’d be home later.  
When Sherlock woke, John and Mycroft explained about the computer. He smiled a bit as he reached out to tap out some words. “I LIKE THIS,” a voice from the computer said.  
“Good,” Mycroft said.  
“THANK YOU, MY.”  
“You’re most welcome.”  
John helped Sherlock with his voice exercise, even when Sherlock got frustrated. The therapist came twice that day as did Dr. Cooper. More tests were done, and the doctor said he’d be allowed to go home the next day as long as a full-time doctor was there.   
John got Sherlock a bowl of ice cream to celebrate the fact that he could go home.  
Mycroft called Anthea and made plans for everything to be prepared for Sherlock’s homecoming.  
John sat with Sherlock as he tapped out on his computer. “JOHN. I WANT YOU TO GO HOME. YOU ARE TIRED AND ROSIE NEEDS YOU. YOU WILL WANT TO GET HER READY FOR SCHOOL. GO HOME AND HAVE DINNER. WATCH A MOVIE. HAVE FUN. THAT WILL ALL BE ALL GONE WHEN I COME HOME. I WILL TRY TO NOT BE A BOTHER.”  
“You aren’t a bother. You’re hurt. None of it was your fault.”  
“I KNOW BUT I KNOW IT WILL NOT BE EASY FOR YOU TO LIVE WITH AN INVALID. I WILL GET MY CAREGIVERS TO DO EVERYTHING FOR ME, SO YOU WILL NOT HAVE TO. I WILL DO MY BEST NOT TO BE A BURDEN. I WANT YOU TO PROMISE YOU WILL TELL ME IF I AM.”  
“Sherlock, if you need help, that’s not being a burden.”  
“PROMISE ME.”  
John looked at Sherlock, who had a very determined look on his face. John reached out and took his hand. “Alright . . . I promise. Are you sure you want me to go?”  
“BE WITH ROSIE. SHE NEEDS YOU.”  
“So do you.”  
“I WILL BE HOME TOMORROW. I WILL SEE YOU THEN. I NEED TO KNOW YOU ARE OKAY. I NEED TO KNOW YOU ARE HAPPY TONIGHT AND EXACTLY WHERE YOU SHOULD BE.”  
“You want me to be sent away?”  
“I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY. PLEASE JOHN. IT IS IMPORTANT TO ME.”  
“I’ll stay with him tonight,” Mycroft said.  
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” John asked.  
“It would be no problem.”  
“Alright. If it’s what you want.”  
“PLEASE JOHN. GIVE ROSIE A HAPPY NIGHT. JUST YOU AND HER.”  
“Okay.” John turned to Mycroft. “Call me if anything happens.”  
“I will.”  
John reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. “I’ll miss you.”  
“I WILL MISS YOU TOO.”  
John bent down and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow, love.”  
“I LOVE YOU.”  
“I love you too.”  
When John left the room, Sherlock looked up at Mycroft before he began to slowly type.  
“MY I NEED YOU TO HELP ME.”  
“Of course.”  
“I WANT JOHN TO BE HAPPY. FIND HIM A JOB.”  
“He wants to stay with you.”  
“I KNOW BUT I AM SO AFRAID. SO UTTERLY AFRAID MY.”  
“Afraid of what?”  
“JOHN SAYS HE LOVES ME BUT I AM AFRAID HE WILL GROW TIRED OFF DEALING WITH AN INVALID. I AM AFRAID HE WILL STAY BECAUSE HE FEELS OBLIGATED BECAUSE OF WHAT MARY DID. I AM AFRAID HE WILL RESENT ME. THAT HE WILL NOT BE HAPPY IF I CANNOT GIVE HIM SEX. THAT HE WILL GROW TO HATE ME.”  
“John will never hate you, Sherlock.”  
“IT TOOK SO LONG FOR HIM TO REALIZE HE DID. IT HAS ONLY BEEN A SHORT TIME. HE IS GOING TO REALIZE SOON THAT I AM JUST NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE.”  
“No, he won’t. He loves you.”  
“PROMISE ME THAT WHEN HE LEAVES YOU WILL NOT PUNISH HIM. PROMISE ME YOU WILL LOOK AFTER HIM. PROMISE ME HE AND ROSIE AND THE BABY WILL BE HAPPY.”  
“And what about you?”  
“PROMISE ME.”  
“I promise. What about you, Sherlock? If John leaves, I know this would break you.”  
“I DO NOT MATTER. I LIVED WITH NO LOVE ALL MY LIFE. WHEN JOHN LEAVES, STICK ME IN A LONG TERM CARE FACILITY. I WILL BE RETREATING INTO MY MIND, LIKE I DID BEFORE. I STAY THERE UNTIL I DIE. NO MORE PAIN. I PROMISED JOHN I WOULD LIVE. BUT IF HE ENDS UP LEAVING, I CANNOT FORCE MYSELF TO CARE.”  
“You can’t do that, Sherlock. You can’t.”  
“IF JOHN DOES NOT LOVE ME ANYMORE, I DO NOT WANT TO GO ON ANYMORE. JUST PUT ME IN A HOME WHERE THEY WILL LOOK AFTER MY BODY. IT IS JUST TRANSPORT. NO ONE HAS TO WORRY ABOUT ME OR VISIT OR PRETEND TO CARE. I ONLY LIVE FOR JOHN. I ONLY WANT HIS HAPPINESS. I MADE HIM PROMISE TO GO IF I WAS A BURDEN. I WANT YOU TO PLAN ON IT, OKAY.”  
“Sherlock, I can’t do this. I can’t lock you away. I can’t agree to this, knowing you’re planning the spend the rest of your life trapped in your mind reliving those days in the warehouse. I won’t let you.”  
“YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO, MY. I AM NOT THE LITTLE BROTHER YOU KNEW. I AM BROKEN. IRREPARABLY BROKEN. I HAVE NOTHING IN MY LLIFE BUT MY LOVE FOR JOHN. SHE HAS TAKEN IT ALL AND SHE DESTROYED MY BODY, MY MIND, MY HEART, MY SOUL. THERE IS ONLY SCARS AND RAGGED TATTERS LEFT. I WAS SPECIAL ONCE. I REMEMBER AND IT TEARS ME APART EVERY TIME I HAVE TO REACH FOR A MEMORY OR A WORD AND CANNOT FIND IT. IF I READ, I SOMETIMES DO NOT KNOW WORDS. TO REMEMBER I CAUGHT CRIMINALS AND PUT THEM IN JAIL. I CANNOT AND WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO DO IT AGAIN. I WILL NEVER HEAR JOHN TELL ME ONE OF MY DEDUCTIONS WAS REMARKABLE OR FANTASTIC. I AM SO MUCH LESS THAN I WAS. PLEASE MY. DO NOT MAKE ME GO ON LIKE THIS. I WILL STAY ALIVE FOR JOHN. HE SAYS HE LOVES ME AND I CHOOSE TO BELIEVE HIM BECAUSE I WANT SO DESPERATELY TO BELIEVE. I WANT TO HAVE SOMETHING. JUST SOME KIND OF HAPPINESS IN MY LIFE.”  
As the computer was speaking this, Mycroft saw tears in his brothers’ eyes. “Of course you want to be happy. I’m so sorry that you’ve known so little happiness. Be with John. Don’t torture yourself with all of these doubts. Let yourself be with him. You’ve wanted him for so long. You’ve given up everything to be with him. You’ve been so lonely for so long. Let him love you. Stop worrying about the what ifs and the might have beens. Stop thinking of all you’ve lost. Don’t worry about the future. Live right now. Please, Sherlock. I know it will be awfully hard but please try to let yourself be with him. Will you try?”  
Sherlock sobbed. His hand reached out. “I TRY.”  
Mycroft smiled. “Good.” He stood up and sat down on the edge of the bed. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Sherlock’s face. “I really do care, Sherlock. I want you to be happy. I love you, Little Brother. I’ve made those responsible for this pay. They will be in pain for the rest of their lives for what they did. And as soon as John’s child is born, that woman will be joining them. I’ve done all I can to help you. But I haven’t stopped looking for further ways to help you. Regrowing nerves, regrowing the skin over your scars, repairing your legs and feet and hands and fingers. There’s a lot of work being done but it’s just not there yet. Someday. If it’s possible, we’ll fix your body.”  
“I KNOW YOU WILL MY. DO NOT WASTE ALL YOUR TIME ON ME. I WILL BE ALRIGHT. GET ON WITH YOUR LIFE.”  
“You aren’t alright, Sherlock. You’re suffering, not just physically but emotionally. You’ve had so much stolen away from you by that woman.” He reached and touched Sherlock’s face. “Brother Mine, if I could take the pain from you, I would. Despite everything I’ve done to hurt you in the past, I do love you. Please believe me.”  
“I DO BELIEVE YOU. I LOVE YOU TOO MY. I KNOW I CAUSE PROBLEMS. IT IS ALL JUST SO HARD. MY WHOLE LIFE HAS BEEN HARD. I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPINESS FEELS LIKE. JUST FOR A LITTLE WHILE.”  
“You deserve to be happy, and I will do what I can to make it happen. You have the thing you most desired in your whole life. Enjoy being with John. Let him love you. You’ll be home with him tomorrow. Build a life with him. Look to the future, not the past.”  
“IT IS HARD MY. BUT I WILL TRY. I WANT JOHN TO BE HAPPY.”  
“And what about you?”  
“IT IS MORE IMPORTANT THAT JOHN IS HAPPY.”  
“He’s lucky to have you.”  
“I AM LUCKY HE PUTS UP WITH ME.”  
“Sherlock, you have to conquer your fears. The past is gone. It’s done. Don’t let it ruin what you have left.”  
“I HAVE NOTHING LEFT.”  
“You have us.”  
“BUT I WAS SPECIAL MY. NOW I AM SO MUCH LESS THAN EVEN ORDINARY.”  
“And if it could be changed, I would change it. But letting this ruin you . . . you’re letting her win. Is that what you want? Do you truly want her to win?”  
“NO.”  
“Then don’t let her. Beat her, Sherlock. And the best way to do that is to be happy with John. She thought she could drive him away from you. But she hasn’t. She thought she could destroy you. Don’t let her. I know it’s easy for me to say that but struggle your hardest. Let me be able to torment her by telling her how happy the two of you are. Do you think you can do that?”  
“I CAN TRY.”  
“Good.”  
The brothers sat talking back and forth. Mycroft helped him with his therapy and fed him his dinner before eating the dinner Anthea had brought for him.  
Sherlock fell asleep around seven, and Mycroft worked on his laptop through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the chapter. Love any kudos and comments.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to a decision about his future. An outing leaves it's own type of scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Please pay attention to the warnings. 
> 
> Also, this chapter made me cry. Big feels.

John had returned home to a happy little girl. They had a quiet meal as she told him all about her day at the movies and having dinner. They watched a movie before he gave her a bath and read her a story.  
“Papa?” she asked when John bent down to kiss her cheek.  
“Yes?”  
“Sherlock’s coming home, right?”  
“Tomorrow. He hurt his head so you’ll have to be careful with him.”  
“And Uncle Sherlock can’t talk?”  
“Not much. We’ll be having people here to help him, and we’ll help him practice. Okay?”  
“Will it take a long time?”  
“It might. We don’t know yet. He might get better very soon or it could take awhile. “  
“Could he never talk right?”  
“I don’t know.”  
Tears welled in the little girl’s eyes. “I . . . I’ll miss his voice.”  
“So will I,” John said quietly. “No tears now. Sherlock wouldn’t want you to cry.”  
“I know. I’ll try.”  
John hugged his daughter tight and kissed the top of her head. He smiled as best he could as she lay down again. He shut off the light and whispered, “Good night.” He closed the door behind him and leaned against it. He clapped his hand over his mouth to stop the sob from escaping. He quietly moved down the stairs and turned off the lights. He undressed quickly and slid between the sheets. His face muffled by his pillow, John let the sobs come.  
To think he might never hear that gorgeous voice again. To never hear him say “I love you.” To never experience that soft purr again . . . Sherlock had lost so much of himself . . . nearly everything that had made him Sherlock.  
John reached out and drew Sherlock’s pillow to his face. He inhaled the scent: his shampoo, his cologne, and that special and unique smell that was Sherlock himself.  
“Oh, love,” he whispered. “Please come back to me. Let me love you. Let me take care of you. I need you.”  
John cried softly until he fell asleep, exhausted.

The alarm woke John from an uneasy night’s sleep. He kept dreaming that he let Sherlock down over and over. The look of pain and sadness on Sherlock’s face was burned into his mind.  
John got up and took a quick shower and shaved before he went upstairs to get Rosie ready for school. When she was gone, he changed his and Sherlock’s bed before Mycroft’s men and Sam arrived and helped set up the equipment that would be needed.  
At ten, an ambulance pulled up, and they unloaded Sherlock and brought him upstairs. The ambulance drivers carefully put Sherlock into bed. The doctors checked on him, and Mycroft led him to the room where they could monitor Sherlock’s condition.  
John sat down beside Sherlock. He bent over and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. “You okay, love?”  
“M . . . m . . . mi . . . ss . . . you.”  
“I missed you too. Glad to be home?”  
Sherlock smiled and nodded. John touched his face. “It was so lonely in this bed without you last night.”  
Sherlock pulled the computer to him. “I AM HOME TO STAY. I AM HOME JOHN. BUT ANYWHERE I AM WITH YOU IS HOME.”  
John smiled at him. “You’re my home now. Wherever you are, love.”  
Sherlock reached out and touched John’s hand. His face was drawn and pale.  
“A lot pain today?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Your head?”  
Sherlock nodded. “ALL OVER.”  
“You’ve had your pain shot?”  
He nodded.  
“Did you get any sleep?”  
“NOT MUCH.”  
“You can rest now.”  
“WITH YOU.”  
“Now?”  
He nodded.   
John settled down beside Sherlock and took his hand, squeezing lightly.  
“L . . . l . . . ove . . . you.”  
“I love you too. Get some rest, love. I’m here. You’re home and you’re safe.”  
A few minutes later, Sherlock was breathing deeply. John got up and gently kissed his forehead. He went out to the sitting room.  
The doctors and caregivers were still meeting with Mycroft.  
“Is he alright?” Mycroft asked.  
“Tired. He’s sleeping now.”  
“He didn’t sleep well. Was awake every hour or two calling for you.”  
“You should have let me know. I would have come.”  
“I was there, and you needed your rest. Besides, he wouldn’t let me. I do want to talk to you after I’ve finished briefing the doctors.”  
John went to make a cup of tea and brought a tray in to make sure everyone was served.  
A few minutes later, the doctors excused themselves and Sam to examine the equipment to see if there was anything more they might need.  
“You wanted to speak to me?” John said.  
“I feel like I’m breaking his trust but you should know that he’s utterly convinced that you’ll leave, that this is too much for even you to accept. He wants me to put him in a home if you leave. He plans to retreat into his mind and live the rest of his life like that. He can’t believe you’d want to stay with him. He thinks he’s a burden and too damaged. He thinks you’re staying because you feel obligated.”  
“I wish I could convince him otherwise. I’m so afraid he’ll reject me in the name of keeping me happy. I need him in my life, Mycroft. I love him.”  
“I know you do. I’ve told him so. And he truly, truly loves you. He needs you. And I think that having you is all that’s keeping him sane.”  
John was shaken. “I need to convince him in some way.”  
“I leave it to you. Sherlock is irretrievably broken now, and he has to gather himself together and build some kind of life. He needs to be with you to be happy. I’m convinced of it. He needs to regain the ability to talk. If we start with that, and Dr. Cooper can get his depression and self esteem under control, that will be a big step forward for him. Preferably before the baby comes. The epilepsy needs to be under control. I’m going to get a service dog for him. For the epilepsy and the depression.”  
“He insists that I’m not to look after him. He says the doctors and caregivers are to feed him, bathe him, everything. He wants me to be with Rosie. He feels guilty, I think, for taking me away from her.”  
“I think you need to insist. He has to feel safe and at home. John, he’s allowing the depression to control him. He has major health issues. But he can’t let himself give up. He needs to be strong. And he needs you to be that strength.”  
“I’m going to do everything I can for him. He saved my life over and over. It’s the least I can do for him. He’s the man I love. I should get back to him, make sure he’s alright.”  
John found Sherlock still resting peacefully. He reached out and touched his hand.  
Sherlock cried out and woke with a start.  
“What’s wrong?”  
Sherlock was wide-eyed and reached out to touch John’s face.  
John was worried. “It’s alright. It’ll be alright, love. I’m here.”  
“D . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . g . . . g . . . go.” He clutched harder at John, his eyes growing wilder.  
“I won’t. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, Sherlock. Your John is here.” He took one of Sherlock’s hands and pressed it against his face. “Feel me. See, look, I’m here.”  
Sherlock’s breath calmed.  
“S . . . s . . . st . . . ay.”  
“I promise. I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere, ever. I swear on my life I want to be with you. Please believe me.”  
Sherlock looked at John, tears filling his eyes. “Nee . . . nee . . . d . . . you.”  
“I know and I need you. Always.” John bent over and gently kissed him. He wiped his tears away. “I love you. I love you so much. It’s alright.”  
Sherlock stopped trembling.  
“I wish I could hold you,” John said. “I don’t want to take the chance of hurting your head.”   
Sherlock nodded and winced.  
“Hurting?”  
Sherlock nodded slightly and closed his eyes.   
“Head?”  
He nodded.  
“Okay. I’ll get the doctor.”  
Sherlock’s hand squeezed tight on John’s arm.  
“It’s alright. I won’t be long. I’ll come right back.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John rushed out to bring the doctor back.  
“Mr. Holmes. I’m Dr. Russell. I’ll be taking care of you during the day. Dr. Watson says your head is hurting.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“You’ve had your pain medication?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“I can give you a few cc’s but no more.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
The doctor inserted a needle into his IV and monitored his heartbeat.  
Sherlock closed his eyes as the powerful drug took hold.  
“Feeling a bit better?”  
Sherlock nodded slowly, his eye growing a bit out of focus.  
John sat down beside him. Sherlock became distant, his face confused. “Love, are you okay?”  
Sherlock didn’t respond, just closed his eyes and drifted off.  
John checked his pulse. It was strong and steady. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

Over the next few weeks, the days were pretty much the same. Getting Sherlock up, cleaned, and dressed, making sure he wasn’t in pain, hours of therapy. He grew frustrated on his perceived level of progress, but John could tell almost every day that there was some progress.  
But something kept nagging at the back of John’s mind. Something about Sherlock. He truly seemed to be working hard, harder than John had ever seen him work. He was determined to speak again. There was so much he couldn’t fix, but he was determined to fix this.   
John still felt guilty over the fall that had robbed Sherlock of his voice. Every night, he’d lay with Sherlock cuddled into his chest and pray to a God he wasn’t sure was there to help Sherlock, to give him hope, to let John be enough for him.  
But John just couldn’t get over the feeling that Sherlock was hiding something or at least not telling him exactly what was bothering him.  
The day Sherlock was allowed back on solid food, John made him a big breakfast with pancakes, bangers, and toast with jam. Sherlock ate and ate until he held up his hand. “F . . . f . . . fu . . . ll.”  
“Good?”  
“Than . . . k . . . you . . . J . . . awwww . . . n.”  
“You’re welcome, love.”  
“Sl . . . sl . . . eeeee . . . py.”  
“I imagine. You ate a lot, especially given that you were on a liquid diet for weeks.”  
“G . . . g . . . et . . . f . . . faaa . . . t . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . M . . . My.”  
John smiled. The bandages had come off of Sherlock’s head, and he could see the scars from the several surgeries Sherlock had had on his head. The still pink scars reminded him how his love had changed. He wished Sherlock could grow his hair out faster to cover them. He gradually became aware that Sherlock was tapping on the laptop.   
“WHAT’S WRONG JOHN? YOU HAVE GOT A FAR AWAY ‘WHAT HAVE I DONE’ LOOK ON YOUR FACE.”  
“Nothing. It’s okay. I’m just glad to see you eating.”  
Sherlock frowned at John and began to tap again. “IT IS THE SCARS RIGHT? I KNOW THEY ARE UGLY, JOHN. MAYBE I SHOULD GET MY TO PICK ME UP A WIG UNTIL MY HAIR REGROWS.”  
“You don’t have to. I’m sorry. It was rude to stare. I just . . .”  
“I KNOW WHY. THEY ARE JUST MORE UGLY SCARS. I WISH I COULD GET RID OF THEM. I AM SORRY, JOHN. I KNOW THEY REMIND YOU OF HOW BROKEN I AM.”  
“Is that what you think?”  
“OF COURSE THEY REMIND YOU. I WILL NEVER BE THE PERSON I WAS. I WILL ALWAYS BE UNABLE TO WALK, HELPLESS. I WILL ALWAYS FEEL SELF CONSCIOUS AROUND OTHER PEOPLE AND NOT WANT TO BE SEEN. I HONESTLY DO NOT KNOW HOW YOU CAN STAND IT.”  
“Answer me this question. Just this one question, okay?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Promise me you’ll answer?”  
Sherlock nodded again.  
“If it was me lying there. If it was me who couldn’t walk or use my hands or . . .” John stopped as Sherlock grabbed his arm. His eyes were full of tears and he was shaking his head.  
“N . . . n . . . no . . . s . . . s . . . aaaay.”  
“If it was me, would you leave? Would you even consider it?”  
Sherlock shook his head vigorously until he looked slightly nauseous.  
“Then why should I be different? You are my life. Yes, I won’t say that sometimes it isn’t difficult. Of course it is. But that’s not because of you. I hate seeing you in pain. I feel so helpless sometimes because I can’t make things better. I’m a doctor and I want to do everything I can to make you feel better but I can’t.”  
“IT IS BETTER JUST HAVING YOU HERE. YOU MAKE ME FEEL SAFE AND WARM AND YOU MAKE ME FEEL AT HOME.”  
John smiled at him. “This is our home. I’ve never felt anything like it. You’re my home.”  
Sherlock smiled shyly and looked down.  
“What’s wrong, love?”  
“NO ONE EVER SAID ANYTHING LIKE THAT TO ME BEFORE. I FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE ANYONE COULD REALLY FEEL THAT ABOUT ME.”  
“Why?”  
“I AM NOT A GOOD MAN, JOHN. I AM AN ARROGANT SMARTARSE WHO IS SO SCARRED INSIDE THAT I FIND IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO BE CIVIL TO PEOPLE WHO ANNOY ME. I AM RUDE. I AM AFRAID IF I LET MY GUARD DOWN, PEOPLE WILL TAKE ADVANTAGE. I AM A FREAK, JUST LIKE DONOVAN SAYS. AND NOW I AM COMPLETELY DISABLED, HELPLESS, BRAIN DAMAGED. I NEVER FELT I BELONGED ANYWHERE, JOHN. NOT EVEN IN MY OWN HOME WHEN I WAS A CHILD. I CAME CLOSEST HERE AND THEN YOU CAME HERE. AND I KNEW I WAS HOME WHEREVER YOU WERE. AND NOW THAT YOU LOVE ME, I HAVE NEVER FELT MORE AT HOME. YOU ARE MY LIFE, JOHN.”  
Sherlock looked up at John as the voice spoke from the computer.  
John felt a lump in his throat. “I love that I mean that much to you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. Do you?”  
“ALWAYS.”   
“You remember what I asked you? I asked you to live for me. To really live. Don’t just exist or continue. I want you to really live. I want our lives to be happy and full.”  
“H . . . h . . . hoooow?” Sherlock asked.  
“We’ll get you better. You’ll talk again. We’ll get you moving more. Work on your depression and self esteem. We’ll go out more and do more.”  
“I . . . I . . . c . . . c . . . caaaaa . . . n’t.”  
“You will. I’ll be with you for every bit of it. You and I. John and Sherlock. You said that, for you, my happiness was more important to you than your own, right?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John leaned closer to him. “I need you to be happy, Sherlock. That’s what will make me the happiest man in the world. I want to see you smile. I want to hear you laugh. I want to hold you and kiss you. Do you think you can do that?”  
“T . . . t . . . ry.”  
“Do or do not. There is no try.”  
Sherlock looked puzzled.  
“Really? You really didn’t get a Star Wars reference?”  
Sherlock just looked confused.   
John smiled. “You will try?”  
Sherlock thought for a long time. “T . . . t . . . ry.”  
“I can’t ask anything more than that. I know it won’t be easy. I know it will take a long time and a lot of hard work. But we can do it together. Don’t you think?”  
Sherlock searched John’s eyes before he slowly nodded.  
“Good. The doctor will be here soon for your speech therapy. Let’s practice, hey?”  
The two practiced before the doctor arrived. John noted Sherlock seemed quite a bit more animated, less depressed. John made lunch for Sherlock, and they practiced more for the afternoon session.  
John knew Sherlock was frustrated that he couldn’t make himself understood, but he also knew it wouldn’t be easy. For every sentence Sherlock got out, no matter how long it took, John gave him a kiss.  
John went for a walk when Dr. Cooper arrived, letting Sherlock have some time to discuss his feelings. On a whim, he stopped into a bakery and picked up some chocolate eclairs for Sherlock, a treat for the first day of their restarted lives together.   
John met Dr. Cooper in the hallway as he returned.  
“Hello, John. Sherlock seems to be in much better spirits today.”  
“We’ve had a talk. We’re setting goals. We’re working together to build a life. Sherlock wants so much, and I’m going to help him.”  
“It’s good that he has you, John.”  
“I’m the one who feels lucky to have him in my life.”  
“He’s fragile right now, John, so be careful not to push too hard.”  
“I know. He seems so strong sometimes, and I can almost forget how broken he is. We’re taking this at his pace. I told him it will take time and won’t happen overnight.”  
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
John took the lift upstairs. “I’m back, love,” he called. “Want a cuppa?”  
“Y . . . y . . . yes.”  
“Be right in. How was your session?”  
“O . . . o . . . kay.”  
“Good.” John put the kettle on to boil and went into the bedroom. He bent down and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. “Need the loo?”  
Sherlock nodded. John carefully picked him up and carried him in, helping him to do his business. “Wheelchair or bed?”  
“Wh . . . eeeee . . . l . . . ch . . .ch . . . air.”  
John smiled. He carried Sherlock back into the bedroom and set him in his chair before he wheeled him into the hall. “Just a mo, love. Gotta use the loo myself.”  
When John came out, Sherlock was staring off into space.  
“You okay?” John asked.  
Sherlock nodded, the faraway look melting from his face.  
“Lost in thought.”  
“A b . . . b . . .bit.”  
“Thinking about anything good?”  
“Y . . . you.”  
John smiled. “Something good I hope.” He wheeled Sherlock into the kitchen and turned off the boiling kettle.   
Sherlock looked down at his hands and blushed.  
“Ah, something really good then,” John teased.  
“K . . . k . . . kiss . . . m . . . me.”  
John smiled and bent over to place his lips softly against Sherlock’s. Sherlock reached out and pulled John into his lap.  
John broke the kiss. “Is this okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”  
Sherlock responded by pulling John’s face down to his and deepening the kiss. “L . . . l . . . ove . . . you,” he whispered.  
“Love you,” John answered. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him closer. His hands wandered to his hair.  
John quickly, however, became aware of a growing hardness against his leg. Sherlock was becoming more and more aroused. John knew he was feeling the same. He resisted the urge to grind down on Sherlock’s erection.  
Instead he carefully and slowly broke the kiss. “Wow, that was . . . wow.”  
Sherlock smiled, then looked down. “I . . . s . . . sorry.”  
“What for?”  
“Ru . . . ru . . . in . . . it.”  
“No, you didn’t. You got aroused. That’s fine. So did I. It’s okay.”  
“N . . . no. C . . . ca . . . n’t . . . d . . . d . . . do . . . any . . . th . . . ing . . .a . . . about . . . it.”  
“We can’t for now, but it’ll be okay. We’ll be able to make love some day.”  
“B . . . b . . . ut . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . you . . . n . . . noooo . . . w.”  
“I know. And I want you too, but we can’t rush things, love.”  
“S . . . so . . . we . . . s . . . s . . . it . . . he . . . re . . . w . . . wi . . . th . . . e . . . er . . .ec . . . tions . . . all . . . af . . . ter . . . n . . . noon?”  
John smiled. “No, we drink tea and think of cold showers.” He kissed Sherlock playfully on the end of the nose.   
Sherlock smiled and looked deep into John’s eyes. “I . . . I . . . do . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . to . . . you . . . kn . . . kn . . . ow.”  
“I know you do. I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want you. But it’s way too soon.”  
“I . . . I . . . ha . . . te . . . th . . . th . . . at . . . th . . . th . . . ey . . . ru . . . ined . . . i . . . it . . . f . . . for . . . u . . . us.”  
John touched Sherlock’s face. “Oh, love. They haven’t ruined it. We just have to wait. I don’t want to upset you or take a chance on hurting you.” Sherlock took another breath. “And before you say it, yes, I would have been careful with you anyway. You’re a virgin, Sherlock. The first time between men should be with someone who takes their time, prepares their partner, doesn’t push them too far too fast. And I want to do that for you. But we have to have the talk. There’ll be things you’ll want to try and things you won’t. I’m going to get us a book of positions, and we can go through it together. I don’t want you reading it yourself so it doesn’t trigger anything. And again, before you say anything, yes, if none of this had ever happened, I would still want to set boundaries on what makes you comfortable before we ever made love. Now, does that sound like a plan?”  
Sherlock smiled shyly and nodded.  
“Good. Let’s have our tea.”  
John got up and made them each a cup. “I brought some eclairs,” he said and smiled as Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “I know how you love them and I thought you deserved a treat.”  
John helped Sherlock to drink and eat, to the point of letting Sherlock lick his fingers. It was just as strangely erotic as licking his fingers free of icing had been. John felt his penis give definite signs of arousal. That pink tongue of Sherlock’s on his finger was just enough. He couldn’t hold back the slight moan that escaped him.  
“O . . . o . . . kay?”  
“I’m fine.” John cleared his throat.  
Sherlock seemed to understand and smiled.  
“It’s not that funny. It’s your fault. You’re too damn sexy.”  
The smile vanished from Sherlock’s face. “D . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . m . . . m . . . ma . . . ke . . . f . . . f . . . fun . . . of . . . m . . . m . . . me.”  
John looked shocked. “I . . . I wasn’t. I would never make fun of you. I meant it. I think you’re sexy, Sherlock. I always will.”  
Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes. “R . . . re . . . rea . . . ly?”  
“Of course I do. You’re the man I love. Now, one more éclair or are you full?”  
“F . . . f . . . fu . . . ll.”  
John wheeled Sherlock over to look out the window as he did up the dishes.  
Sherlock looked down at the people walking by. He remembered the last time he’d done this. He’d wished with all of his heart that he could change bodies with any of them. And he hadn’t changed his mind. He longed to walk again. He wanted to be able to do so many things. Even sleeping without nightmares would be a luxury. He wanted to be whole again. He wanted to be able to give John all that he deserved. He wanted to be with John in every way possible. He glanced over at John. He seemed happy enough. But he deserved so much more. He couldn’t get over the fact that he’d wasted so much time. They could have at least had a few years together before everything fell apart. If they’d been together before the Fall, John would never have been with Mary and none of this might have happened. A wave of regret and sadness came over him. He wanted it all to go away. He wanted to wake up whole in John’s arms and have this all be a nightmare.  
John came over and lifted Sherlock into his chair before covering his legs up and sitting in his chair. “How about we celebrate tonight? Go to dinner?”  
“O . . . o . . .or . . . der . . . i . . . i . . . in?”  
“Okay. You alright? You seem sad.”  
“W . . . w . . . was . . . ted . . . t . . . t . . . time.”  
“Wasted time? When?”  
“B . . . b . . .be . . . f . . . fore . . . I . . . j . . . jump . . . ed. Sh . . . sh . . . should . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . t . . . told . . . you . . . be . . . be . . . fore . . . th . . . th . . . that.”  
“I understand. I’ve thought that too. If I’d only accepted how I really felt about you, none of this would have happened. Mary would never have done this. But we’re together now, love. And we need to be together. I need you in my life, Sherlock. I need you like air.”  
Sherlock smiled sadly at John, wishing he could believe him.  
John stood and picked up Sherlock, settling back down in his chair with Sherlock on his lap.  
Sherlock snuggled into John, luxuriating in his smell, in the touch of his skin on his. Sherlock shut his eyes and let himself go. Let his mind quiet as he seemed to absorb all that John had to offer.  
John began to hum as song that Sherlock used to play for him in the middle of the night when John suffered from his PTSD dreams. The memory of playing made his fingers clench and a singular pain well up in him.  
“P . . . p . . . please . . . n . . . n . . . ot . . . th . . . th . . . at . . . s . . . s . . . ong,” Sherlock whispered as tears trickled down his cheeks.  
“Why not? It’s a beautiful song.”  
“I . . . I . . . play . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . you. C . . . c . . . ca . . . n’t . . . play . . . i . . . it . . . a . . . ny . . . m . . . m . . . more.”  
“Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I forgot. Oh love. Please. Please don’t cry.”  
Somehow John asking him to stop made it worse. Sherlock felt himself losing control. He began to sob, great, heaving sobs as he burrowed into John’s arms. He tried his best to bring himself under control but just couldn’t. It all hit him at once. The things he’d never be able to do. And for some reason he felt safe crying like this. Because he was with John, in John’s arms, surrounded by John’s scent.  
“Oh, love, please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was trying to comfort you. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Please calm down.”  
Sherlock felt John rubbing his back softly. He shook his head. “N . . . n . . . n . . .” He couldn’t get the word out. Sobs overwhelmed him.  
“Sherlock, you’re scaring me. Please try to breathe. You’re going to pass out.”  
He struggled, he really did, but nothing worked. He couldn’t breathe.  
“Dr. Russell!” John yelled. “Sam!”  
The two men hurried into the room.   
“He’s getting so he can’t breathe. He needs something to calm him down before he passes out. Help me lay him on the sofa.”  
The two men carefully lifted Sherlock and put him down. Sherlock blindly reached out. “J . . . J . . . J . . .” He felt John’s hand in his. He missed John’s scent. It wasn’t filling his nose like it did. He pulled on John’s hand, trying to get him closer.  
“Sherlock, calm down! You have to calm down! Everything will be fine. It’s okay.”  
“J . . . J . . . J . . . JOHN!” Sherlock screamed. “JOHN! JOHN! JOHN!” He screamed it over and over. He needed John. He needed to feel him.  
“Sherlock. I’m here. Please. Please calm down.”  
Sherlock could hear the tears in John’s voice. He weakly pulled at John, reaching out to touch his face. His left side was towards John, and he couldn’t see him. His right eye was full of tears — everything was blurry.  
“JOHN!” he screamed again. “D . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . g . . . g . . . go! D . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . l . . . l . . . leave . . . m . . . me!”  
“I won’t! I’m here!”  
Sherlock felt someone pull up the sleeve of his T-shirt and a needle jab into him. “J . . . J . . . JOHN! D . . . d . . . d . . .don . . . t . . . l . . . l . . . let . . . th . . th . . . em . . . h . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me!”  
“We’re not hurting you. Try to breathe. Try to breathe.” John held Sherlock’s hand against his chest. “Breathe with me. Breathe.” John breathed deeply in and out. He reached out with his other hand and took Sherlock’s other hand holding it against Sherlock’s chest. “Breathe with me.”  
He listened in fear as the ragged breaths coming from Sherlock began to wheeze. “Listen to me. Breathe. Breathe, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock felt disconnected, like this wasn’t him. He couldn’t feel himself struggling for breath. He couldn’t feel John’s hands on him or hear his voice. It was all black. Everything was gone. He was alone. John had gone. If death had a feeling, this must be it. His mind was clear. All he could hear was a distant sound of laughter that grew in volume by the second. They were laughing at him. And he knew the voices — Mary, Jim, the five kidnappers, the two men at the hospital who raped him. He screamed. No words only raw pain. His screamed and screamed to drown out the laughter. He screamed until he couldn’t hear his voice anymore. And still they laughed.  
“He’s gone, Sherlock.”  
“He’s never coming back.”  
“Come back to us. We’ll fuck you really good.”  
“You’re too dirty for him.”  
“He won’t ever fuck you, Sherlock.”  
“You’re better off dead.”  
“You’re not having him or my children. You don’t deserve them.”  
“You’re worthless.”  
“You’re useless.”  
“You’re disgusting.”  
“You’re ugly.”  
“He just pities you.”  
“He doesn’t love you.”  
“No one will ever love you.”  
As the blackness took him, Sherlock wished with all his might that death had finally come for him.

John was frantic. Sherlock screamed until his voice gave out and was unresponsive. He knew Sherlock had retreated into himself. But with his mind palace gone, there was only pain left in there.  
“Please come back to me,” John said as he took Sherlock’s face into his hands. “Look at me. I’m here. I won’t ever leave. Never.”  
John heard the lift engage. Mrs. Hudson came out of it, ashen-faced. “What’s wrong?”  
“I don’t know. He got so upset. I was trying to comfort him. I . . . I started humming the music he played for me when I’d have nightmares. I never even thought of it. He got so upset.”  
“His screams. I don’t think I’ll ever get them out of my head.”  
Sherlock struggled against John, his eyes blindly streaming tears, his mouth open in silent screams as his breath quickened. And just like that, it was over. His eyes closed, and he sank back into the sofa.  
John reached for his pulse. It was there but too fast and thready for his liking.  
Dr. Russell pushed John aside. He listened to his chest with his stethoscope. “His breathing is raspy. His heartbeat is too fast. I’m going to up the sedative a bit.” He motioned to Sam. “Let’s get him back to bed.”  
They picked him up and carefully moved him to the bed.   
John stood up but quickly sat down again as his knees gave way. He buried his head in his hands and started to cry.  
Mrs. Hudson sat down beside him on the coffee table and took him into her arms. “Shhh. It’ll be okay. Sherlock will be fine. He loves you.”  
“And I love him. I’m just afraid it’s not enough. He needs so much.” He looked up at Mrs. Hudson. “What if I’m not enough?”  
“You’re all he’s ever wanted John. Ever since he first met you. I never saw him as happy as he was when you first moved in. I knew he was in love with you, but he couldn’t bear to tell you. He’s been rejected by so many people that it would have hurt too much if you’d rejected him too. I’m so happy you’ve realized how much you love him. Sherlock’s been through hell and back to keep you safe.”  
“If I could have taken his place. If Mary had done this to me instead . . .”  
“Sherlock would never have stood to see you hurt like he was.”  
Dr. Russell came back out. “Are you alright, John? You’re pale as a ghost.”  
“How is he?”  
Dr. Russell sat down on the sofa and took John’s pulse. “I want you to go in and lie down too. His heartrate has fallen, and it’s getting stronger. If he sleeps for awhile, he should physically be alright. I think he’ll need to talk to Dr. Cooper about this. He didn’t seem to know where he was. He wasn’t responding to any outside stimulus.”  
John felt fear settle in his chest. “You think he was disassociating?”  
“It could be. Dr. Cooper would be able to give a more precise diagnosis, but it’s certainly troubling if it’s true.”  
“What is it, John?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
“It could be serious. It runs from mild to severe. It’s a detachment from reality. I was here and he kept calling for me. He didn’t hear me. I . . . I did this. I upset him, and it pushed him over the edge. Oh God, what if he’s had a psychotic break? What if he’s never any better? What if he never knows I’m here? What if he thinks I’ve abandoned him? What if he’s lost?” John started to cry. “What have I done to him?”  
Mrs. Hudson took him into her arms. “It’s alright. He’ll be alright. Don’t worry.”  
“I might’ve broken him, Mrs. Hudson.”  
“John, you need to calm down. You need to rest too. Let me give you a sedative. Get some sleep,” Dr. Russell said.  
“When he wakes up, he’ll need me.”  
“He won’t wake for a long time. I won’t give you as much of a dose.”  
“Promise?”  
“I promise.” Dr. Russell and Sam helped John into the bedroom.  
When he saw Sherlock laying there, he sobbed. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out to touch Sherlock with a shaking hand. “Please come back to me, love.”  
“Lay down, John,” Dr. Russell said. John laid down under the covers as Russell prepared a needle. He injected John and sat with him until John fell asleep.   
John woke a few hours later. He heard his daughter speaking in the other room. Sherlock was still asleep. He was twitching, reaching out, groaning low in his throat.  
John sat up and called for Dr. Russell.  
“What is it?”  
“Has he been doing this long?”  
“The last fifteen minutes. He’s waking up. Slowly.”  
John took Sherlock’s hand and touched his face. “Wake up, love. Come back to me. Please, love.”  
Sherlock continued to moan, gradually louder and louder.  
After fifteen more minutes, Sherlock’s eyes opened.  
“Love, are you alright?”  
Sherlock looked around wildly. “J . . . J . . . J . . . John!”  
“I’m here. I’m here, love. Right here. You’re in our bed. We’re home at 221B.”  
“D . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . l . . . l . . . l . . . lea . . . ve . . . m . . . m . . . me.”  
“I’m here. I’ll always be here. Please, love. Look at me.”  
Sherlock began to thrash. “JOHN! JOHN!”  
“I’m here! I’m here!” He pulled Sherlock to him. “Stop it! I’m here! We’re here! You’re safe!”  
As John’s scent enveloped Sherlock, it grounded him. The blackness in his brain began to dissipate. He felt someone holding him. He heard John’s voice.  
“J . . . John?” he whispered.  
“I’m here, love. We’re here. We’re home.”  
The blackness cleared from Sherlock’s eyes and he looked, really looked. It was his room, his and John’s. He burrowed his face into John’s shoulder and inhaled his scent. “J . . . J . . . J . . . John. M . . . m . . . my . . . J . . . J . . . John,” he whispered.  
“Sherlock. Oh my love. I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”  
“N . . . n . . . n . . . ow.”  
“I . . . I was so scared.” John pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s face, relieved more than he could say at seeing those eyes focussing on him. “Don’t do that to me again . . . please.” He touched his face gently.  
“I . . . s . . . s . . . sorry.”  
“No. I didn’t mean it that way. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I should never have hummed that music. I didn’t think . . . I . . .”  
“O . . . o . . . kay. S . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . it . . . a . . . ll . . . we . . . nt . . . bl . . . bl . . .ack.”  
“You didn’t hear me? You couldn’t feel me?”  
“N . . . n . . . not . . . af . . . af . . . ter . . . you . . . l . . . let . . . g . . . go . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . nt . . .sm . . . sm . . . ell . . . you . . . an . . . any . . . m . . . more. I . . . I . . . g . . . got . . . l . . . l . . . los . . . t.”  
“You were lost without me.”  
“A . . . a . . . al . . . ways.”  
John was shaken. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw the deep, abiding love there. “Oh, Sherlock. I’d be lost without you. You’re my life now.”  
Sherlock smiled, a bright, happy smile. “Lo . . . ve . . . you.”  
“And I love you, always. Are you feeling okay?”  
“H . . . ea . . .d . . . m . . . m . . . mudd . . . led. B . . . b . . . ut . . . f . . . f . . . eel . . . ing . . . o . . . o . . . okay.”  
“Muddled? What do you mean?” The concerned look returned to John’s face.  
“M . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . h . . . head . . . f . . . f . . . feels . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . f . . . f . . . fuzz . . . y.”  
“Does you head hurt?”  
“A . . . l . . . l . . . litt . . . le. I . . . I . . . c . . . ca . . . nt . . . des . . . cribe . . . I . . . it.”  
“Okay. You lay here alright? I’m going to get you a drink and make some tea.”  
“O . . . o . . . kay.”  
“Papa!” Rosie yelled as John went out to the kitchen.  
“Hey, poppet!” he said as he lifted her up and kissed her on both cheeks.  
“Are you and Sherlock okay?”  
“Sherlock isn’t feeling well. But he’ll be okay. We thought we’d get supper in. What do you think?”  
“Angelo’s!”  
“Thought so.”  
Rosie helped John make tea and went in to hug Sherlock tightly and kiss him on the cheek.   
“H . . . h . . . hi . . . R . . . R . . . Ro . . . sie.”  
“You feeling better now?”  
Sherlock nodded. “B . . . b . . . be . . . cause . . . o . . . of . . . you . . . r . . . P . . . P . . . Pa . . . pa.”  
“He’s made you better?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John helped him drink his glass of water and started on the tea.  
Dr. Cooper came a few minutes later. John got out Sherlock’s laptop and left them.  
Sherlock told Dr. Cooper about the incident, explaining how he had gone into his head, into blackness, and everything else had disappeared. It worried him that he lost himself so easily without John. “I NEEDED HIM. I NEEDED TO HAVE HIM BESIDE ME. AND WHEN I LOST PHYSICAL CONTACT, I FELT CUT LOOSE, LIKE NOTHING WAS REAL. I FELT LIKE I WAS LOST. I SCREAMED FOR HIM UNTIL I COULD NOT SCREAM ANYMORE. I AM AFRAID THAT I WILL LOSE MYSELF WITHOUT HIM. THAT HE WILL THINK HE HAS TO STAY TO KEEP ME SANE, TO KEEP ME HERE. I DO NOT WANT TO TRAP HIM WITH ME. I WANT HIM TO FEEL FREE TO LEAVE IF HE WANTS TO. I CANNOT HAVE HIM STAYING OUT OF OBLIGATION.”  
“Can it not be that he’s staying because he loves you? He does love you. He stays because he doesn’t want to be without you.”  
“BUT MONTHS MORE LIKE THIS? YEARS? HE WILL TIRE OF LIVING WITH AN INVALID. HE WILL GET TIRED OF HAVING A BURDEN NOT A PARTNER OR A LOVER. WHEN THE BABY COMES, HE WILL HAVE THREE PEOPLE TO LOOK AFTER. JOHN IS STRONG BUT THIS WILL TAKE ALL OF HIS STRENGTH. HE WILL HAVE NOTHING LEFT. HE WANTS ME TO LIVE FOR HIM. HE WANTS ME TO BE HAPPY. I DO NOT THINK IT IS POSSIBLE.”  
“For you to be happy?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“You are living at home. You’re in love with someone who loves you. You have more than a lot of people in your life.”  
“I AM NOT UNGRATEFUL FOR WHAT I HAVE. I KNOW IT IS MORE THAN I EVER THOUGHT THAT I WOULD EVER HAVE. I NEVER THOUGHT THAT I COULD HAVE SOMEONE LIKE JOHN LOVE ME. BUT I KNOW WHAT I HAVE BECOME. I KNOW HOW UGLY I AM, HOW DAMAGED AND DISGUSTING. I HAD SEVEN MEN INSIDE ME. HOW COULD JOHN WANT SOMEONE LIKE THAT?”  
“You were raped, Sherlock. You were tortured and raped. John doesn’t think of you like that.”  
“HE PITIES ME. HE IS DISGUSTED BY ME. I WANT HIM SO MUCH BUT I DO NOT KNOW IF IT WILL EVER HAPPEN. TODAY WE WERE KISSING AND WE BOTH GOT AROUSED BUT JOHN PULLED BACK. THEY RUINED IT. JOHN WILL NEVER FEEL COMFORTABLE HAVING SEX WITH ME. WE MAY NEVER HAVE IT. AND EVEN IF WE DO, THERE ARE THINGS WE MAY NEVER BE ABLE TO DO BECAUSE OF MARY. BECAUSE SHE WANTED ME HUMILIATED AND DEGRADED AND HURT BECAUSE I LOVED HER HUSBAND. I WANT TO BE HAPPY BUT I DO NOT THINK I AM CAPABLE OF IT. I WILL ALWAYS EXPECT JOHN TO LEAVE AT SOME POINT. I AM SO AFRAID I WILL ALWAYS EXPECT MY LIFE TO TURN UPSIDE DOWN. I WILL ALWAYS THINK I WILL END UP BACK IN AN INSTITUTION ALL ALONE.”  
“You don’t have to be. Your self esteem has been a problem since you were a child. We’ve been working for months on this. I think your medication should be changed. I’m going to up the dosage.”  
“MEDICATION CANNOT TAKE THESE DOUBTS AWAY.”  
“They’ll help you stop feeling this way. Sherlock, you need to trust yourself and your feelings. You need to trust John and his feelings. I know it’s not easy for you. And, with the sex, you know you aren’t ready yet, don’t you?”  
Sherlock nodded. “I DO NOT KNOW IF I WILL EVER BE READY. IF I EVER WILL NOT FEEL THEM TOUCHING ME, HURTING ME, DEGRADING ME.”  
“Sherlock. I know that you feel badly about this. But you can’t obsess over it. You went through a horrific ordeal that no one should ever go through. But you did and you have to come to some resolution. You have to accept that it happened. You can’t change it. And you have to move past it.”  
Sherlock looked shocked as his eyes filled with tears.  
“DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I WANT TO REMEMBER WHAT THEY DID TO ME? DO YOU THINK I WANT TO REMEMBER THAT AND BEING ATTACKED IN THE HOSPITAL AND MARY SHOOTING ME AND THE TWO YEARS I SPENT ON THE RUN? I HATE THINKING ABOUT THEM. I HATE THINKING OF MYSELF AS A VICTIM.”  
“You were a victim. And none of it was your fault. You have to believe that.”  
“IF I WAS NOT SO BLIND. IF I LET MYSELF SEE MARY FOR WHO SHE WAS. IF I HAD NOT BEEN SO WILLING TO OVERLOOK THE FACTS, IT WOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED.”  
“You can’t blame yourself. You have to stop thinking that way. From what I can tell, all you’ve done is try to protect people you care about, especially John. You’ve been hurt because you care. You’ve been hurt because you love. John 15:13 says ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ And that’s what you were doing. And that’s why you shouldn’t punish yourself for this. For any of it. Allowing it to overwhelm you is a form of self-harm. And you don’t deserve it.”  
Sherlock felt the tears begin the roll down his cheeks. “BUT HOW DO I STOP IT? IT COMES WHENEVER MY MIND IS NOT OCCUPIED, WHEN I AM ASLEEP. HOW CAN I CONTROL THAT? HOW CAN I STOP HEARING MYSELF SCREAMING?”  
“It’s something that will take time. John had PTSD after he came home from Afghanistan, didn’t he?”  
Sherlock nodded, angrily wiping the tears from his eyes.  
“Does he have it anymore?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“It didn’t happen overnight, did it?”  
“BUT IT HAS BEEN MONTHS.”  
“Not since the attack in the hospital. It’s barely been a month. You can’t expect yourself to get over something like that instantly. You feel violated, helpless, and victimized. All very valid feelings. Your friend was right when she said it was like going through the stages of grief. What stage do you think you’re at now?”  
Sherlock thought. He knew he’d tried to deny it to himself, and he’d certainly been angry. He still felt anger blossom in him when he thought of them. Was the disassociation part of the bargaining? Was it a way of blocking it out, hoping it had gone? The depression he’d always had but this had made it worse. The things he’d thought — the way he thought John would leave and the suicidal thoughts.  
“FOR THE FIRST ATTACK, DEPRESSION. FOR THE SECOND, THE SAME, I THINK. I DO NOT KNOW THAT I EVER TRULY DENIED THAT IT HAPPENED. I HAVE BEEN ANGRY. I HAVE TRIED BARGAINING WITH GOD, WITH ANYONE. IT IS ONLY THE DEPRESSION THAT IS LEFT.”  
“So you know you have to move on to acceptance.”  
“IN MY HEAD, I KNOW IT HAPPENED BUT IF I ACCEPT IT, IF I REALLY ACCEPT IT, THEN THERE IS NO WAY I CAN EVER DENY IT AGAIN. IT IS PART OF ME. I WILL FOREVER BE A RAPE VICTIM, A TORTURE VICTIM, I WILL FOREVER BE AN INVALID. MY MIND WILL NEVER BE THE WAY AS IT WAS. I REMEMBER BEING SPECIAL, BUT I WILL NOT EVER BE SPECIAL AGAIN. IF I ACCEPT IT, THEN I HAVE TO GIVE UP ALL HOPE THAT THIS WILL GO AWAY, THAT I WILL BE NORMAL SOME DAY. IT MEANS IT ALL GOES AWAY.”  
“No. There’s always hope that someday medical science can help you. It’s not about giving up. It’s about accepting what happened and working to move on. It can’t be all that you think about. There are hard truths you have to accept. And I’m not saying it’s easy. And it’s hard not to give up. But you have your family, your friends, and you have John. You have people who love you. They want you to get better. I want you to get better. Acceptance is the hardest part of this. It takes a lot of courage. It takes a lot of strength.”  
“I HAVE NO STRENGTH LEFT. I HAVE HAD TO BE STRONG ALL MY LIFE. I CANNOT BE ANYMORE.” Sherlock felt so . . . defeated. He knew he had to move on, but it was so overwhelming. “I DO NOT THINK I CAN DO IT.”  
“You might not be entirely ready but think about it. You can do it. I know you can.”  
Before long, the hour was over. Sherlock felt shredded, felt like nothing would ever be right for him again.  
John came in carrying a glass of lemonade. “Rosie helped me make it,” he said as he sat down and helped Sherlock drink it.   
Sherlock felt like there was a permanent lump in his throat, like his eyes were permanently swimming in tears, like something was sitting on his chest.  
“JOHN WILL YOU DO SOMETHING FOR ME?”  
“Anything.”  
“H . . . h . . . hol . . . d . . . m . . . me?”  
“Sure.” John looked a bit confused but took him into his arms. They laid together with Sherlock’s head on John’s chest.  
Sherlock was breathing too quickly. He felt like his life was about to completely change. And not for the better. Despite what Dr. Cooper said, a part of him knew the acceptance meant giving up hope of ever being better, of being better for John, of being the man John deserved.  
“What’s wrong, love? Did you have a bad session?”  
Sherlock nodded. It was taking every bit of strength he had to not burst into tears. He had to be strong for John. He’d promised he’d try. John had seen him cry too many times.  
“Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong?”  
Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t burden John with this.  
“Please, Sherlock. Tell me what’s bothering you. What did Dr. Cooper say that upset you so much?”  
Sherlock pulled himself from John’s embrace. He reached out and touched the computer pad. “I WILL BE ALRIGHT.”  
“Tell me, love,” John said, sitting up.  
“I DO NOT WANT TO CONCERN YOU, JOHN. I WILL BE FINE.”  
“No. Listen to me. I know you aren’t fine. Tell me. We’re not going to lie to each other.”  
Sherlock felt defeated. He couldn’t lie to John. Not anymore.  
He reached out to the computer. “WE TALKED ABOUT THE STAGES OF DEALING WITH THE DEPRESSION AND PTSD. WE AGREE THAT I WAS AT THE DEPRESSION STAGE. BUT WE HAD DIFFERENT INTERPRETATIONS ON MOVING ON TO ACCEPTANCE. HE THINKS IT WILL BE FINE. I DO NOT SEE IT THAT WAY.”  
“How do you see it?”  
“GIVING UP. HAVING NO HOPE THAT ANYTHING WILL EVER BE BETTER. THAT I AM ACCEPTING BEING A BRAIN DAMAGED, LESS THAN ORDINARY INVALID ALL MY LIFE AND EVEN WORSE THAN THAT . . .” Sherlock stopped, not sure if he could finish it.  
“Tell me, love.”  
“THAT I WILL NEVER BE BETTER. I WANT TO BE A BETTER MAN FOR YOU. I WANT TO BE THE MAN THAT YOU DESERVE.” Sherlock looked out the window, his eyes full of tears.  
John sat quietly for a moment before he reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, love. I hate that you bottle up that much pain. But acceptance isn’t giving into hopelessness. There’s hope. There’s always hope. So long as there’s medical research, there’s hope. And so long as there is, your brother will be looking for cures and treatments. He has helped you with the pain. There’s never a reason to give up. And don’t ever say that you don’t deserve me. I love you. I’ll always love you. There’s no questioning that. I love you for who you are. Who you’ll always be. In here.” He touched Sherlock’s chest.  
Sherlock looked into John’s beautiful eyes. “BUT MY HEART IS BROKEN.”  
“No, it isn’t. Your heart is mine. And it’ll always be mine just like mine is yours.” He took Sherlock’s hand and held it over his chest. “Don’t cry, love. Every day. Every single day we’ll do what we have to to make this better. Don’t worry about the past or the future. Just live now. Here. With me. And we’ll be as happy as we can be. Okay?”  
Sherlock sniffed and nodded as John wiped the tears from his face. Sherlock slumped into John’s arms as John wrapped his arms around him.  
“S . . . s . . . so . . . rry.”  
“Don’t be sorry.”  
“I . . . I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you.”   
“I love you too, always.”  
“Papa!” John heard. “I think the therapist is here.”  
“N . . . n . . . no . . . t . . . n . . . n . . . ow.”  
“It’s alright. It’s only an hour. Then we’ll talk about dinner, okay?”   
Sherlock nodded.  
John went out to greet Dr. Stewart.  
“He’s had a rough few hours so he may not be that cooperative.”  
“I understand. He’s been making good progress. Are you joining us?”  
“If he wants.” John asked Sherlock if he wanted him to stay and Sherlock nodded.  
The next hour was excruciating. Sherlock wasn’t up for it and didn’t do well. By the time Dr. Stewart left, he felt even more defeated, more hopeless. But John was there. He put Sherlock in his wheelchair and took him out to the sitting room.  
“Uncle Sherlock!” Rosie said. “Papa said we could have food from Angelo’s for dinner.”  
“Th . . . th . . . at’s . . . g . . . gr . . . eat.”  
“Sure you’re okay with that?” John asked.  
Sherlock nodded as Rosie and her kitten crawled up into his lap.  
That night, they had a wonderful dinner. Sherlock had tried his best and had smiled and even laughed. Despite the long nap he’d had, he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to put the day behind him.  
While John bathed Rosie, Sherlock asked Brad to get him ready for bed. When John came down from taking Rosie up to bed, he found Sherlock already asleep.  
Sherlock slept through the night undisturbed by dreams. When he woke, the sun was just coming up. He turned to look at the clock. It was just five a.m. John laid sleeping beside him, softly snoring on his side, one arm and a leg thrown over Sherlock.  
Sherlock smiled. John seemed to be protecting him even in his sleep. He reached out and ran his fingers lightly through John’s hair. He sat up and quickly called for Brad.  
“Yes, sir?” Brad said as he came to the door.  
“C . . . c . . . can . . . you . . . h . . . h . . . hel . . . p . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . b . . . b . . . bathed . . . a . . . and . . . dr . . . dr . . . dressed?” he whispered.  
“Yes, sir.”  
“D . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . w . . . wake . . . J . . . J . . . John.”  
Brad quickly got Sherlock in and out of the bath and dressed, shaved, hair combed, and his teeth brushed by 5:45.  
“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”  
“C . . . c . . . can . . . you . . . c . . . c . . . call . . .m . . . my . . . br . . . br . . . bro . . . ther . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . m . . . me?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
He got the mobile out and scrolled through it until he found Mycroft’s number.  
Mycroft answered at the first ring.  
“U . . . u . . . up . . . e . . . e . . . early, M . . . My?”  
“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”  
“N . . . n . . . noth . . . ing.” He made signs to Brad to get his laptop. When he had he began to type out. “I NEED A FAVOUR. CAN YOU SEND ME ONE OF YOUR CARS?”  
“Certainly, where do you and John want to go?”  
“JOHN IS NOT COMING. I WANT TO GO BACK TO THE WAREHOUSE.”  
Mycroft was silent for a long moment. “Are you sure that’s prudent?”  
“PLEASE MY. I HAVE TO GO. I NEED TO.”  
“Alright. But I’m coming with you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”  
“HURRY. JOHN WILL BE UP SOON.”  
“I will.”  
Sherlock asked Brad to take him downstairs and outside and to tell John that he’d gone out with Mycroft and would be back soon.  
Sherlock sat waiting for Mycroft as the sky clouded over. Soon Mycroft arrived and he helped Sherlock into the car.  
They rode in silence, though Sherlock could almost feel the disapproval coming off of Mycroft.  
When they arrived at the warehouse, Mycroft got him into his wheelchair and up to the door. The scent of the place hit Sherlock. He flashed back to hanging from the ceiling, screaming for them to stop. But he pulled himself out of it. He motioned for Mycroft to wheel him to the corner.  
There was still a dark stain over most of the area, and Sherlock knew it was his own blood. The chains still hung from the ceiling and the ones that had held his feet were the dark rust of dried blood. The cot was still there, covered in stains.  
Sherlock felt himself shaking. He could almost hear himself screaming. He could almost hear them taunting and laughing at him. He felt the tears dripping down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away.  
“Please, let’s go, Sherlock. There’s nothing to be accomplished here.”  
With a shaking hand, he tapped on his laptop. “DR. COOPER SAID I HAD TO ACCEPT THIS. I HAVE TO. FOR JOHN. I NEEDED TO ACCEPT I WILL NEVER BE BETTER. THAT I AM AN INVALID AND WILL BE FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. THAT I HAVE TO TRY AND GET OVER ALL OF THIS SO I CAN BUILD A LIFE WITH JOHN. JOHN DESERVES BETTER THAN A BROKEN MAN WITH A BROKEN BODY AND A BROKEN MIND. I WANT TO BE BETTER FOR HIM, BUT I KNOW THAT I CANNOT. I HAVE TO ACCEPT IT. I AM GONE. I AM LOST. SHERLOCK HOLMES IS GONE. IT IS ONLY THIS THAT IS LEFT. I MUST GIVE UP EVERY HOPE I HAVE AND LIVE NOW.”  
Sherlock began to sob, his face in his hands. He felt Mycroft’s hand tighten on his shoulder. “Oh, Brother Mine. You aren’t gone or lost. You’re you. You have changed, but having John in your life has changed you as well. Don’t despair. I promise I’ll keep looking for treatments. I’ll help you get the plastic surgery. I’ll help you with whatever you need.”  
“And you don’t have to do it alone,” Sherlock heard. He turned around. John was there, his eyes bright with tears. John moved towards him and knelt down at his feet. “Sherlock, I know you’re doing this for me, but you have to want to do it for yourself.”  
Sherlock nodded his head. “F . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . u . . . us.”  
“Yes,” John nodded. “For us.” He took Sherlock into his arms. “You should have told me you where you were going.”  
“W . . . w . . . wan . . . ted . . . it . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . d . . . done.”  
“I understand.”  
“L . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . at . . . th . . . th . . . this . . . pl . . . ace. L . . . l . . . look . . . wh . . . wh . . . at . . . th . . . they . . . d . . . did . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . here.”  
John turned around, his eyes taking in the dried blood, the chains, the cot where Sherlock was raped and where he cried at night for John to rescue him. “Where you sacrificed to keep us safe,” John said, his voice thick with emotion.  
“You’ve given up everything for us, Sherlock. Don’t feel that you’ve lost everything. You went through this to save us. You were so brave. You’re so loved for it.” Sherlock could hear the rare emotion in his brother’s voice.   
Sherlock nodded. He hadn’t really felt brave. He hadn’t thought of it as being anything other than protecting people he loved. Sherlock knew now that they’d never have hurt John and probably none of the others. Mary knew he’d never have given up and let his brother, John, Molly, or Greg be hurt.  
“P . . . p . . . please . . . t . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . o . . . out. I . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . h . . . home.” Sherlock felt that his life had shifted completely. The small bit of hope he’d had was gone. There was only a sense that he’d given up. That, in some ways, his life was over. But he had to do it for John. He had to give up everything for John, to make him happy. His life wouldn’t be about using his wits to solve crimes, chasing criminals, doing experiments, playing his violin — all the things that made him Sherlock Holmes. Now he had to accept help doing everything, stay at home, help as much as he could with Rosie and the baby, and be boring. Sherlock Holmes — the man who used his mind, the man who was special — was dead. All that was left was the half man who had to try his best to keep John from getting angry or disgusted and leaving. He had to get Dr. Cooper to get him to the point where he could let John have him. He didn’t know if he could, but he thought he’d have to force himself to make John happy. John said he had to wait until he was ready. But John had had to put up with too much from Sherlock already — the moods, the tears, the hospital trips. John had to come first now. Sherlock had to subsume everything now, every problem, every pain. He couldn’t think of himself at all now — only John.  
He wanted to make John happy. That was it. That’s what he had left. Everything in his life would be for John. His life was over, but John’s wasn’t.  
“Sherlock, we could stop for breakfast,” Mycroft said.  
Sherlock looked at John. “Mrs. Hudson is getting Rosie ready for school,” John said. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” John said.  
“I . . . i . . . it’s . . . o . . . kay.”  
“Any preferences?”  
“Not for me,” John said.  
“D . . . d . . . dough . . . n . . . n . . . nuts.”   
“You want doughnuts?” John asked.  
“Y . . . you . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . th . . . th . . . em.”  
John smiled. “So do you.”  
Sherlock smiled back and squeezed John’s hand. He felt like he was dying inside, and he felt like he was screaming down deep in his chest, but he was going to do this for John.  
They stopped at a lovely little tea shop. They each ate several doughnuts and drank several cups of tea. Sherlock was doing his best acting. He enjoyed the doughnuts and tea but he felt sick inside. The food and drink did nothing to erase the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The pastry and hot tea were roiling, and he felt that he was going to be sick. He forced himself to be alright, though, and sat talking quietly with his brother and boyfriend, both of whom, he noticed, were watching him closely. If he weren’t an invalid, both of them would consider this a danger day. And it would be if he was able to walk. He’d have gone out and got some coke. He literally ached for it, but knew, like everything else, this was lost to him as well.  
Once breakfast was done, they went home. Sherlock asked if it would be okay if he laid down for awhile.  
John said okay and helped him to bed, kissing his forehead and telling him how proud he was of him.  
Sherlock rolled over on his side and looked out the window. He felt like a fraud. Yes, he had accepted what had happened to him, accepted that he would never be the man he was and his life was irretrievably ruined. He couldn’t see how trying to forget the past was going to make his future better. He’d been disappointed, hurt, abandoned by everyone in his past. He wanted more than anything to delete it all. To start over with John and just look to the future. If only it were that easy. He let despair overwhelm him. It felt as if his head was tearing itself in two.  
“I’m a victim. I’m a rape victim. I’m a torture victim. I’m an invalid. I’m stupid. I’m useless. I’m worthless. I’m a freak,” he thought over and over again. He held in his emotions as best he could. John had to believe that Sherlock had decided to move on. And he would try. He would. But he believed he had the right to mourn his past life. He had the right to mourn the death of Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. Now there wasn’t anyone to help Lestrade and his people. No one. How many people would die? How many would go unavenged? Many believed he was a detective because of the puzzles. But he really did it because he wanted to use his mind to save people. No one understand that, not even John.  
And now he’d never do it again. Never solve another mystery. He was just too stupid now. The vast storage rooms of his mind palace were destroyed, the knowledge lost. He’d tried to rebuild them but wasn’t able to. They were dust.  
He wished he could have just one day. One day in “his” body again. One day to show John just how much he loved him. Let John make love to him as many times as possible. Now their sex life, if they ever had a sex life, would forever be tainted by Mary and what those men had done to him. John would always be cautious, always worrying that he’d trigger Sherlock or hurt him. John would never be able to let go of it — never be able to give himself purely to the act — except for the seconds when he’d orgasm. Then he’d worry that he’d hurt Sherlock all over again. He’d worry about how he moved, how he touched, the sounds he’d made.   
He didn’t think he could ever give John what he wanted. He loved John with his whole heart and wanted to be his lover more than anything. But he knew John and didn’t know if John would ever be able to let himself go and completely enjoy himself in sex. He knew John would never let himself think of himself first. Between Sherlock and the children, he was last in his own priorities. But he was first in Sherlock’s.  
Sherlock was stressed and exhausted. He allowed himself to fall asleep. He woke to John shaking him gently.  
“Dr. Stewart will be here soon,” John said, smiling.  
Sherlock loved the look of that smile.  
“You okay?”  
“S . . . s . . . sorr . . . y . . . b . . . b . . . bit . . . s . . . sad. G . . . g . . . giv . . . ing . . . u . . . up . . . is . . . n’t . . .e . . .e . . . easy.”  
“Don’t think of it like that. You aren’t giving up. You’re moving on.”  
“I . . . it . . . is . . . wh . . . what . . . i . . . it . . . is. Re . . . re . . . naming . . . i . . . it . . . d . . . does . . . n’t . . . ch . . . ch . . . change . . . w . . . wh . . . at . . . Ii . . . it . . . is.” He looked down at his hands, anyplace but into John’s eyes.  
“Are you feeling defeated?”  
Sherlock nodded. “I . . . I . . . f . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . a . . . v . . . v . . . vic . . . tim. A . . . a . . . and . . . I . . . h . . . h . . . hate . . . it.”  
“I know you hate it.”  
“B . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sup . . . posed . . . to . . . j . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . a . . . ac . . . cept . . . it. I . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . th . . . that. B . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . I . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t. B . . . but . . . you . . . n . . . n . . . nee . . . d . . . m . . . me . . .t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . be . . . tter . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . I . . . let . . . Sh . . . Sher. . . lo . . . ck . . . Hol . . . mes . . . d . . . d . . . die.”  
John looked shocked. “What do you mean?”  
Sherlock reached for his computer. “THE OLD SHERLOCK HOLMES DIED IN THAT WAREHOUSE. I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO KEEP HIM ALIVE IN MY HEAD. I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO GIVE HIM UP. I WANT TO SOLVE MYSTERIES. I WANT MY BODY BACK. BUT I CANNOT SOLVE MYSTERIES. MY BODY IS BROKEN. I HAD TO LET GO OF SHERLOCK HOLMES TO MOVE ON, AS YOU SAID. SO THE PERSON THAT WAS SHERLOCK HOLMES IS NOW OFFICIALLY DEAD. HE DIED COMPLETELY THIS MORNING IN THE WAREHOUSE. I AM A NEW PERSON. I HAVE THE SAME NAME BUT EVERYTHING ELSE IS NEW. I AM AN INVALID AND I AM GOING TO BE DEPENDENT ON OTHER PEOPLE FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. MY MIND IS LESS THAN ORDINARY. IT HURTS TO THINK OF MY OLD LIFE BECAUSE I WAS SPECIAL. I AM NOT SPECIAL ANYMORE. I AM NOTHING ANYMORE. I WILL DO WHAT I CAN TO BE BETTER FOR YOU. FOR US. I PROMISE. I WILL NOT GO ON AND ON ABOUT IT ANYMORE. I PROMISE I WILL NOT MOURN FOR HIM ANYMORE. I WILL LIVE FOR YOU. FOR US.”  
He dared to look up and see John frowning at him. “Did you do all of this for me?”  
Sherlock looked back down at his hands. “FOR US.”  
“But for me is what you mean. This should be for you. Not for me.” John sounded angry.  
“I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . .s . . . sorry,” he whispered. “I . . . I . . . won . . . t . . . men . . . tion . . . i . . . it . . . a . . . again. D . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . be . . . an . . . gry . . . wi . . . th . . . m . . . me . . . pl . . . pl . . . ease. Pl . . . pl . . . ease . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . h . . . h . . . hate . . . m . . . me.”  
“Oh, love,” he heard John’s voice soften. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I just want to make sure that you’re doing this for you. You have to want to move on. And I know you feel like you’re giving up. And I understand why you feel like part of you has died. You aren’t the same person. And you have every reason to feel the way you do. But you can only move on when you’re ready.”  
Sherlock looked up at him. “I DID LET HIM DIE. I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT AGAIN.”  
John saw the pain in Sherlock’s eye, the sadness, the loss — and he realized how upset Sherlock was. How hard it had been to let his old life go — how painful it was. And he wanted to do it for both of them. If Sherlock was alone, John didn’t know if he could ever have moved on.  
“It’s hard. And I’m so proud of you. It’s hurting you. I can see that. But if you can move on, then I’ll accept that.”  
Sherlock reached out and tapped on the computer. “I WANT TO DO ONE MORE THING AFTER DR. STEWART COMES, OKAY?”  
“What is it?”  
“I WANT TO TAKE SOME FLOWERS TO MY GRAVE. THAT SHERLOCK IS DEAD. I THINK IT WILL HELP.”  
“That’s kind of morbid.”  
“Pl . . . pl . . . please?”  
“Alright. I’ll call Mycroft and see if he can send a car.”  
“Th . . . th . . . thank . . . you.”  
John held him for a few minutes. “You want some tea before she comes?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
Sherlock worked hard on his therapy. When he finished, he had felt a bit better as the doctor told him he was making real progress.  
John had made them some sandwiches for lunch, and they ate quickly before John helped Sherlock get ready. They heard the lift engage and Mycroft stepped out with a bouquet of roses.  
“Hello, Mycroft.”  
“John.” Mycroft came over and sat down beside Sherlock. “Are you sure about this, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock nodded. “I . . . it . . . w . . . w . . . will . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . it . . . ea . . . si . . . er. I . . . ne . . . ne . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . say . . . goo . . . d . . . b . . . bye.”  
“Alright, but I’m coming with you.”  
Sherlock nodded. He was frightened, anxious, and felt sadness descend on him like a blanket.  
John helped him put on his jacket, and they went out to the car. They made small talk on the drive. John asked him several times if he was sure.  
Sherlock nodded. He willed his mind to silence, but his stomach was roiling. He reached out and clutched John’s hand. John smiled at him and pulled Sherlock’s head down to his shoulder before kissing the top of his head and squeezing his hand.  
When they reached the cemetery, Sherlock felt like the bottom had fallen out of his world. He felt dizzy and nauseated. John picked him up and set him in the wheelchair. He started to push him towards the gravestone, but Sherlock held up his hand and started to tap on his laptop. “YOU DO NOT HAVE TO COME. I KNOW THIS PLACE HAS BAD MEMORIES FOR YOU. FOR ME TOO. I CAN NEVER SAY I AM SORRY ENOUGH FOR WHAT I DID TO YOU THEN. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. MY CAN TAKE ME IF YOU WANT TO WAIT HERE.”  
“No, love. This is important to you, so it’s important to me. You need me.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and squeezed his shoulder.  
Sherlock nodded, and they continued on their way until they came to the simple black stone with white lettering spelling SHERLOCK HOLMES.   
Mycroft handed Sherlock the flowers as he stared at the stone. The place where he saw John break down and beg him to stop being dead.   
“LAST TIME I WAS HERE, JOHN BEGGED ME TO STOP BEING DEAD. I LIVED THEN FOR HIM. I LIVED WHEN MARY SHOT ME FOR HIM. BUT THAT MAN, THAT SHERLOCK HOLMES IS DEAD AND HE CANNOT COME BACK. HE IS GONE AND WILL NOT EVER BE BACK. MARY DID WHAT MORIARTY, HIS MEN, HIS AGENTS, RUSSIAN MAFIA, SERBIAN AND RUSSIAN ARMY OFFICERS, DRUG CARTELS, AND THE NORTH KOREAN SECRET SERVICE COULD NOT DO. IF I HAD NOT BEEN SO BLIND, I WOULD STILL BE HIM. BUT IT IS TOO LATE. GOODBYE SHERLOCK. I WILL MISS YOU. I WILL MISS YOUR MIND AND YOUR BODY. SOMEDAY I WILL JOIN YOU HERE. BUT NOT YET. YOU’VE ALREADY GOTTEN PART OF ME HERE.” He looked at the small mound where Mycroft has buried his fingers. “WE DID GET THE THING YOU MOST WANTED IN ALL THE WORLD.” Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at John. “GOODBYE.”  
Sherlock reached out then asked Mycroft to push him closer to the stone. He leaned forward and dropped the flowers. He leaned his hand against the stone and stared at the letters before he started to cry. He brought his other hand up to cover his eyes as he began to rock and keen deep in his throat.  
He heard someone approach. “Oh, love,” John said as he leaned down to wrap his arms around Sherlock. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”  
“Yes, Brother Mine. You’ll be alright,” Mycroft said, his voice shaking as he rubbed Sherlock’s back.  
Sherlock continued to sob. “I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I’m . . . d . . . d . . . d . . . dead,” he howled.  
“No, you aren’t,” John said. “Please calm down.”  
“Let him mourn, John,” Mycroft said.  
“T . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . b . . . best . . .t . . . p . . . p . . . part . . . o . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . I . . . is . . . g. . . .g . . . gone,” he howled again. “A . . . and . . . a . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . th . . . at’s . . . l . . . l . . . lef . . . t . . . is . . . th . . . the . . . sh . . . sh . . . shell.”  
John felt his own eyes filling and a lump he couldn’t swallow past form in his throat.  
Sherlock hunched forward and vomited until there was nothing left but bile. When he was done, he saw that it had splattered on the stone. He looked up at John in a panic, his eye red, his face flushed. “I . . . I . . . I . . .s . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . l . . . so . . . so . . . sorry.”  
“It’s alright. We’ll clean it.”  
Mycroft and John moved the flowers and Mycroft used a handkerchief to clean the stone.   
“There, all fixed, brother. All fixed. No harm done. I’ll have my men come back and clean everything properly,” Mycroft said.  
“Do you want to go?” John asked.  
Sherlock’s eyes were full of tears and so childlike that it made John’s heart clench.  
“We don’t have to go yet. Is your stomach still bothering you?”  
Sherlock shook his head. He reached out again with a shaking hand to touch the cool stone. He wept for a few moments more before he leaned farther and sat precariously on the edge of his seat to touch his forehead to the stone. “G . . . g . . . g . . . goo . . . d . . . bye,” he whispered and kissed the stone, reaching out to trace the letters with his fingers. He leaned back into the seat of his wheelchair and awkwardly pulled himself back.  
“Do you want to go now?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John wiped his own face and turned the wheelchair around. Mycroft was on his mobile asking Anthea to send one of his men to clean up. They got back into the car and Sherlock snuggled into John’s arms. As the car pulled away, none of them noticed the man on the street with a mobile taking pictures.  
Sherlock didn’t cry but felt himself growing more and more tired. He felt like a great burden had been lifted from his heart. He’d accepted it. His life was over. There was only the part of him left that loved John. And, in the end, that was the best part of him. “JOHN,” he typed.  
“What?” he said as he pressed the side of his face against the top of Sherlock’s head.  
“A HUGE PART OF ME IS GONE. IRRETRIEVABLY GONE. AND I ACCEPT THAT NOW. BUT I JUST REALIZED THAT THERE IS A PART LEFT. THE PART THAT LOVES YOU. AND IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN THE BEST PART OF ME.”  
“Sherlock, really? That’s what you think?”  
“IT IS WHAT I KNOW,” Sherlock typed, his tired eyes looking up at John.  
John smiled at him. “I love you. And I am so . . . humbled and honoured that you care that much about me.”  
“I . . . I . . . I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
John kissed Sherlock, softly on the lips. “Let’s go home.”  
Sherlock snuggled back into John’s arms.  
When they got home, John put Sherlock to bed and went to get him something to calm his stomach. He brought him in some medicine and some biscuits with his tea. They sat and talked about their feelings.   
Sherlock felt shredded emotionally. But he still had to talk to Dr. Cooper and had another session with Dr. Stewart. He just wanted to sleep until he couldn’t sleep anymore.  
“After Dr. Cooper leaves, you can have a nap, okay?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
When Dr. Cooper came, Sherlock told him about what he’d done, how he’d accepted everything.  
“How do you feel?”  
“EXHAUSTED. A BIT EMPTY. CONFUSED. UNSURE OF THE FUTURE. SCARED.”  
“All normal emotions.”  
“I HAVE LOST EVERYTHING THAT MADE ME ME. THE ONLY PART IS THE PART THAT LOVES JOHN. I DO NOT KNOW IF I CAN BUILD A LIFE WITH HIM, GIVEN MY LIMITATIONS, BUT I WILL HAVE TO TRY. JOHN IS ALL I HAVE. I CANNOT LOSE HIM. I NEED TO START ON HEALING MYSELF SO I CAN HAVE SEX WITH HIM. I WANT HIM. I WANT A NORMAL LIFE. I AM SO AFRAID IF WE EVER HAVE SEX, THAT JOHN WILL ALWAYS WORRY THAT HE IS HURTING ME OR GOING TO TRIGGER ME. THAT HE WILL NOT EVER ENJOY HIMSELF. HE WILL GET FRUSTRATED AND LEAVE.”  
“There’s a lot in that statement. It’s good you want to build a life with John, but you have to look after yourself too. It’s only been a month since you were raped, Sherlock. You can’t push yourself.”  
“I AM SO TIRED OF BEING TOLD THAT I HAVE TO WAIT. THAT I CANNOT PUSH MYSELF. I GAVE UP EVERYTHING IN A HURRY BECAUSE I WAS TOLD IT WAS THE BEST THING FOR ME. NOW THE THING I WANT MOST, I AM TOLD TO WAIT AND WAIT. IT’S NOT FAIR.”  
“I know it doesn’t seem fair, Sherlock. But pushing yourself won’t help. You’re worried about John not enjoying sex. What about you? If you do this too soon, it could hurt your future enjoyment of sex.”  
“IT DOES NOT MATTER TO ME IF I ENJOY IT. I WANT JOHN TO ENJOY IT. I DO NOT KNOW IF I EVER COULD ENJOY IT. SEX IS DIRTY AND PAINFUL AND HUMILIATING. AT LEAST IT WAS TO ME. THOSE MEN SEEMED TO ENJOY IT. I NEED TO BE ABLE TO GIVE JOHN THAT. I NEED HIM TO BE ABLE TO USE MY BODY ANY WAY HE WANTS. JOHN IS A VERY SEXUAL PERSON. HE NEEDS IT, I HEAR HIM IN THE LOO SOMETIMES WHEN HE THINKS I AM ASLEEP. I HAVE TOLD HIM TO SLEEP WITH SOMEONE ELSE, BUT HE WILL NOT.”  
“Whoa, whoa, Sherlock. Sex is not supposed to be dirty, painful, and humiliating. Those men raped you. What they did doesn’t have anything to do with what sex between two consenting adults who love each other is. The mechanics are the same but a good partner prepares their lover beforehand. And there’s much more to sex between two men than anal penetrative sex. And who says it’s you that has to be penetrated?”  
“I AM LIMITED IN WHAT I CAN DO. AND I CANNOT IMAGINE JOHN LETTING HIMSELF BE USED LIKE THAT.”  
“If John loves you, like he says he does, do you honestly think he’d leave you because you aren’t ready for sex yet?”  
“NO BECAUSE HE WOULD FEEL OBLIGATED TO STAY. HE WOULD WAIT UNTIL WE HAD A FIGHT OVER SOMETHING ELSE BEFORE HE WOULD LEAVE. I AM TERRIFIED THT HE WILL GO AND LEAVE ME ALONE. THEN IT WILL BE BACK TO AN INSTITUTION FOR ME.”  
“Does he know how afraid you are?”  
“YES. HE KEEPS REASSURING ME THAT HE WILL NOT LEAVE, BUT I DO NOT KNOW. HE CANNOT PUT UP WITH ME FOREVER.”  
“Why not?”  
“I AM NOT A GOOD PERSON AND NOW I AM A BURDEN. ON TOP OF IT, HE GOT ANNOYED WITH ME BEFORE AND WOULD LEAVE FOR AWHILE. NOW THAT ROSIE AND HIS NEW BABY WILL LIVE HERE, HE CANNOT LEAVE. MAYBE I SHOULD GO TO AN INSTITUTION ANYWAY AND LEAVE JOHN TO RAISE HIS CHILDREN IN PEACE. HE DOES NOT NEED ME ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE.”  
“Would that make you happy? To leave?”  
“OF COURSE NOT. IT WOULD BREAK MY HEART. IT WOULD DESTROY ME. BUT I NEED JOHN TO BE HAPPY. I DO NOT MATTER AT ALL. I NEVER HAVE AND I NEVER WILL. ONLY JOHN MATTERS.”  
“Don’t you think John would say the same?”  
“HE CAN FIND SOMEONE NEW. HE WILL FIND ANOTHER MOTHER OR FATHER FOR HIS CHILDREN. HE MAKES FRIENDS EASILY. I WILL BE ALONE FOREVER BUT IT IS BETTER THAN RUINING HIS LIFE.”  
The door slammed open and John stood there, anger in his eyes.  
“Do you still think so little of me that you’d think I’d leave you?”  
“Dr. Watson, were you listening at the door?” Dr. Cooper asked.  
“No. I was in the loo and heard the laptop. Sherlock, I love you. I’m not leaving. I’m not going out to find someone new. And you are not going to an institution.”  
“I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY.”  
“The only way I’ll be happy with you. Is there nothing I can do to make you see that?”  
“JOHN, I DO NOT KNOW IF I CAN EVER GIVE YOU WHAT YOU NEED.”  
“Love?”  
“SEX.”  
“I’m not an animal, Sherlock. I can control myself. I don’t live for sex.”  
“BUT YOU WANT IT. YOU HAD AN ERECTION WHEN WE KISSED AS I DID. I AM AFRAID IF WE EVER DO HAVE SEX, YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO EVER ENJOY IT BECAUSE YOU WILL THINK YOU WILL EITHER HURT OR TRIGGER ME. TELL ME I AM WRONG.”  
“Oh, Sherlock,” he said, sitting down. “Yes. I’ll admit that. I do like sex and I do want you but not before you’re ready. And I’ll admit it will be tough not to think of what they did to you, how they hurt you. The last thing in the world I’d want to do is hurt you.”  
“I TOLD YOU THEY RUINED IT FOR US. I TOLD YOU. WHEN YOU SEE THE SCARS ON MY CHEST, YOU ALWAYS COUNT THEM. EVERY TIME. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU WILL DO WHEN WE MAKE LOVE? YOU WILL EITHER STARE AT THEM — OR YOU WOULD HAVE TO LOOK AT MY BACK. OR LOOK INTO MY SCARRED FACE. AND IF I AM NAKED, YOU WILL SEE MY LEGS, MY MISSING FINGERS. THERE IS NO WAY THAT YOU WILL NOT BE REMINDED.”  
“They didn’t ruin everything for us. It’ll just . . . it’ll just . . .”  
“DO NOT LIE TO ME, JOHN. YOU KNOW IT WILL RUIN IT. I WANTED YOU TO BE FIRST. I DID. I THOUGHT ABOUT IT SO MUCH.” Sherlock was crying by the time the laptop finished speaking.  
John reached out to touch him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry they took that from us. But it is what it is. We can’t turn back time.”  
“I think the both of you will need to get counselling together. You both have issues to deal with before you even consider it. I’d like at least once a week for us to have a session to talk about it. We’ll work slowly towards it. Does that sound acceptable?”  
Sherlock thought and reluctantly nodded.  
John nodded as well. “Do you want me to go now?” he asked Sherlock.  
Sherlock clutched his hand and squeezed before he shook his head.   
The session lasted for another twenty minutes before Dr. Cooper stood up and said his goodbyes.   
John laid down and held he’s arms open for Sherlock. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . s . . . sorry.”  
“For what, love? You were telling your psychiatrist your feelings. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m sorry that I overheard. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it scares me when you say that you think I’m going to leave. That it will destroy you.”  
“I . . . I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . b . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . am . . . s . . . s . . . sc . . . ared.”  
“I know you’re scared. So am I. But we can’t let it rule our lives. We have so much to look forward to. Our whole lives. Let’s just live it, hey? Let’s not worry about the past and the future. The future will have its own worries without us adding to them. Just know this. I promise on my life that I’ll never leave you. Sex is something we can work on with Dr. Cooper. Let’s concentrate on the love now. You and I love each other. Let’s get used to that for now.”  
Sherlock nodded. Just being near John calmed him down. He had to stop doubting John’s love, even though he still felt he didn’t deserve it.  
“I . . . I . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . will.”  
Sherlock could feel his eyelids drooping. He snuggled into John and soon fell asleep.   
John laid there, happy Sherlock was sleeping but upset by the words he’d used. If he was completely honest with himself. Sherlock was right. He didn’t know if he could ever completely relax when having sex with Sherlock. He would be afraid that he’d hurt or trigger him. He’d resolved that he’d never ask Sherlock for penetrative sex. If Sherlock wanted to try, he would but not unless he asked for it. But there was so much more that could trigger him — the wrong touch, the wrong sound.  
John had dealt with sexual assault survivors as part of his practice. The haunted eyes, the fear of being touched, even by a doctor. Sherlock had never liked to be touched much. John had almost thought him haphephobic. But with John, it had been different. When he thought about it, he realized that Sherlock had always leaned into John’s touches, held on just a heartbeat or two too long.  
He looked down at the top of Sherlock’s head. He had been neglected, hurt, and tormented all of his life. How he would have loved to have seen him when he was very young before the bullies at school had gotten to him. A smiling, laughing child full of sass and curiosity. Before he was beaten down, made to feel like he was a freak. John felt tears come to his eyes.   
How horrible it had to have been. A touch-starved man, convinced that no one would ever willingly touch him and resigned to it, having those men touch him, humiliate him. It must have been almost unbearable. It was little wonder he was having such a hard time coping with it. Despite what Sherlock had said, John wasn’t convinced he’d fully accepted what had happened to him. He’d no doubt accepted that yes, it had happened and, knowing him, he probably believed in some small corner of his mind that he had somehow deserved it. But he doubted that Sherlock would forever move on from it.   
Yes, John had moved on from his injury in Afghanistan. His shoulder hurt him sometimes, but he rarely dreamed of it and the limp only came back under severe stress (though it hadn’t bothered him in years). But how could Sherlock hope to completely move on? He had disfiguring injuries; he was in a wheelchair; he had permanent brain damage. How could he ignore that?   
John had resolved long ago that he would do whatever he could to show Sherlock how special he was, how loved, how wonderful.   
He smiled as he remembered one of their first conversations in the back of the cab going to their first crime scene. Sherlock had been utterly gobsmacked that John had thought his deductions were brilliant and amazing. He’d said that he’d only ever been told to piss off. John had come into his life and helped him see that he wasn’t the sociopath that he’d always said he was.  
John had always known that there was a huge heart beating in Sherlock’s chest. He’d just needed someone, anyone, to treat him with humanity, with love, with compassion.  
John hadn’t been perfect, he knew. He recalled fighting with Sherlock over his seeming uncaring attitude towards victims. But he’d been wrong. It hadn’t been that Sherlock cared too little, he cared too much. Sherlock took the blame onto himself. If he couldn’t solve a case soon enough, he saw it as his failure, when it wasn’t. Sherlock had hated that he hurt people. Sometimes it was simply a sharp comment to protect himself, but other times it was merely because he lacked the experience with emotions in interacting with people in different situations.  
Sometimes John felt like he’d like to track down every single person who had ever hurt Sherlock and punch them or do worse. But he knew that he’d be at the top of the list. He shuddered to think of the pain he’d caused Sherlock.  
He couldn’t imagine what it was like to feel so alone. And if he had any say, Sherlock would never feel alone again. John softly kissed Sherlock’s head.  
John was dozing off when he heard the lift engage. The speech therapist must be coming. He gently shook Sherlock awake.  
Sherlock looked exhausted. The session went as well as could be expected, and Sherlock fell asleep almost as soon as Dr. Stewart left.  
John was worried about Sherlock, though he thought the exhaustion had a lot to do with the busyness of the day.  
He left Sherlock sleeping when Rosie came home. They spent a great time together playing games and working on her homework. John made her dinner, and they settled in to watch a movie.  
After he’d given Rosie a bath, read her a bedtime story, and put her to bed, John wasn’t sure what to do with himself. It was too early to go to bed, Sherlock was still asleep, and he’d done the dishes.  
He got out his laptop and went to his blog. He hadn’t updated it in a long time. He’d added their last case right before Sherlock was kidnapped.  
He scrolled through his description of what had been a fairly mundane case, no more than a 5, not at all fitting for the final case of the great Sherlock Holmes. He scrolled down through the comments and saw many condolences for Sherlock’s injuries and the end of his career. There were the typical troll posts as there always were. People saying he got what he deserved, too bad he wasn’t dead, and so on. John tried to skip over them but found his jaw clenching every time one came up.  
But there were also people who Sherlock had helped who’d posted about how he’d saved their lives or found a loved ones’ killer. They all asked John to pass on their thanks and warm wishes.  
John copied and pasted all the positive posts into a file to show Sherlock. It might help him to know that people cared. He thought that he should invite Molly and Greg to dinner. Maybe Anderson. He’d been heartbroken when Sherlock had been discovered.   
John got up and went in to check on Sherlock. He knew he’d have to wake him soon so he could take his medication. He went to the loo to get ready for bed and, on a whim, decided to take a shower.  
As the hot water cascaded over him, he quickly and efficiently washed his hair and the rest of his body. Used to taking short showers in the army, he’d never really learned to take long ones. He closed his eyes and let the warmth sooth him. Suddenly a picture popped into his mind. He could almost hear the shower curtain being opened and a very naked Sherlock Holmes stepping into the tub. He was as perfect as the day John had first met him. His skin was pale as alabaster and flawless. His face wasn’t scarred anymore. He was so beautiful it made John want to cry.  
Sherlock smiled in pure joy. “Room for one more?” his voice purred.  
“Always.” Sherlock came into John’s arms and their lips met.   
John reached down and touched himself as he imagined he and Sherlock slowly making love in the shower. He came with a yell, calling Sherlock’s name and nearly collapsing in the tub.  
He quickly cleaned himself up and dried himself off with a thick white towel.  
He walked naked into their bedroom and reached into the drawer for a pair of pants and his sleeping trousers. He dressed, and when he turned around, he saw Sherlock looking at him.  
“You startled me,” he said, smiling. “How do you feel?” He sat down next to Sherlock. “Better?”  
Sherlock swallowed and nodded.  
“Need the loo?”  
Sherlock’s face turned red. “I . . . i . . .in . . . a . . . m . . . min . . . ute.”  
“What’s wrong?”  
“Um,” he said. “I . . . I . . . I . . . he . . . ard . . . you . . . i . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . sh . . . sh . . . shower.”  
It was John’s turn to turn red. “I . . . um . . . I’m sorry.”  
“A . . . an . . . d . . . th . . . th . . . then . . . you . . . c . . . c . . . came . . . in . . . h . . . h . . . here . . . n . . . n . . . nak . . . ed. I . . . I . . . g . . . g . . . got . . . a . . . l . . . lit . . . tle . . . ex . . . ci . . . ted.”  
“Really?”  
“I . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . you, J . . . J . . . John.”  
John reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. He flashed back to the Sherlock he’d imagined. “I want you, too. You know that.”  
“C . . . c . . . can . . . you . . . a . . . at . . . l . . . l . . . east . . . k . . . kiss . . . m . . . me?”  
John kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. “I love you.”  
“L . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you.” Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against John’s.  
“Here, let me help you.” John uncovered Sherlock, noticing the rather prominent bulge in his sleep trousers. “Ah. Maybe a few minutes. How about a drink? I can make you a sandwich. You must be hungry, yeah?”  
Sherlock smiled and nodded.  
John went out to the kitchen to get Sherlock something to eat and his meds. He put an apple on the plate too. By the time he got back into the bedroom, it seemed Sherlock was a bit readier to be taken to the loo.  
“Drink first or loo?”  
“L . . . l . . . loo.”  
John lifted him up and helped him to the toilet. When they came back, he helped Sherlock take his pills and drink.  
Sherlock asked to try and eat the sandwich himself. He clutched the bread in his remaining fingers. Between his two hands, he had enough fingers left for one hand and a sandwich could be held. It took awhile and involved a bit of spillage but Sherlock got the whole sandwich eaten. John helped him by cutting up the apple and giving him individual pieces.  
“Still hungry?” he asked.  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“How about a sleeping pill? You aren’t apt to get sleepy after your nap.”  
Sherlock nodded. John went out to get another pill.  
“It’s been a hard day. But tomorrow is a new day. How about we go out for lunch?”  
“M . . . m . . . may . . . b . . . be.” Sherlock cuddled into John.  
John found his eyes getting heavy. He reached over and turned on the alarm before he found himself falling asleep.  
When the alarm went off in the morning, John woke yawning for some reason. He rolled over to look at a very wide-awake Sherlock.  
“Morning, love,” he said as he kissed him.  
“M . . . m . . . m . . . morn . . . ing.”  
“Let me get you to the loo, okay? And I’ve got an idea for after.”  
When he’d taken care of Sherlock and dressed, he got Rosie up and helped her get ready. He was cooking breakfast when Sherlock called out asking if he could have a piece of toast.  
John yelled back that he’d make some. He set a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk in front of Rosie and kissed the top of her head. He popped two pieces of toast in the toaster and put the kettle on.  
A few minutes later, he called Sam and asked him to help Sherlock with his tea as he put plenty of strawberry jam on the toast.  
Sam carried it in as John sat down and drank his tea, tucking into his own bowl of oatmeal.  
When Rosie was finished and had brushed her teeth, John helped her with her coat and shoes and walked her down to the car waiting for her. He was surprised to see Mycroft step out.  
“Good morning, Uncle Mycroft,” Rosie said.  
“Good morning, Rosie. Off to school, are we? Or perhaps the office?”  
Rosie giggled. “School, silly.”  
“I won’t keep you then. Have a very good day.”  
“You too.”   
John bent down and kissed her cheek, giving her a good squeeze in the process. She climbed into the car and it pulled away from the curb. Another car quickly took its place.  
“Do you want to come up? I can make you some tea.”  
“No, John. I just stopped by to see how Sherlock is.”  
“He was quite upset when we got home. He slept most of the day and through the night too. He’s eating breakfast right now. I’m going to keep him busy today.”  
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”  
“I will.”  
Mycroft got into the car and it pulled away.  
John went back upstairs and into the bedroom. Sherlock was still licking jam off of his fingers. There was jam all over his face. John smiled.  
“Wh . . . wh . . . what?”  
“Jam everywhere. I think it’s time for your bath.”  
Sam stood up and went to run the water.  
John licked his thumb and tried to clean some of the jam off of Sherlock’s face.  
Sherlock pulled away. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . t . . . t . . . two . . . y . . . years . . . o . . . old.”  
“I know that. I’ll get a flannel,” John said, smiling. “Or I could lick it off.”  
Sherlock smiled. “N . . . n . . . n . . . num . . . ber . . . two . . . p . . . pl . . . ease.”  
John smiled wider and leaned forward to lick the jam from Sherlock’s face, ending with a long, deep kiss.  
“Th . . . th . . . th . . . that’s . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . way . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . i . . . it,” Sherlock smiled.  
“Well, I think it’s bath time for you.”  
Sam came back in to get Sherlock.  
John picked up the dishes and went out to do them. He’d just scanned the headlines in the paper, when Sherlock was wheeled out into the sitting room, his hair still wet but brushed.  
“Don’t you look nice,” John said.  
“C . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . im . . . im . . . agine . . . I . . . I . . . d . . . do.”  
“Don’t give me that. I thought we could go the park for a walk before the speech therapist comes.”  
John saw Sherlock’s face twist into a grimace. “P . . . p . . . peo . . . ple . . . w . . . will . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . me. Th . . . th . . . they’ll . . . h . . . hear . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . t . . . talk . . . ing. I . . . I . . . I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . kn . . . know . . . J . . . J . . . John.”  
“I think it would do you good to get out. I’ll be there. It’ll be fine. I promise.”  
Sherlock looked skeptical.  
John took Sherlock back into the loo to dry his hair. He loved running his fingers through that soft mane of curls.  
“H . . . h . . . hat,” Sherlock said.  
John understood. His hair had been shaved in one area, and Sherlock didn’t want people seeing it.   
“Alright.” He got a jacket and put it on Sherlock as well as a small hat before getting dressed himself.  
John pushed Sherlock towards the park. There were glances their way but no one said anything. He took them into a tea shop and got both of them tea. Sherlock held them on his lap as they entered the park and found a bench.  
They sat and talked quietly. John helped Sherlock with his tea.   
“You see? It’s a wonderful day.”  
“B . . . b . . . bit . . . c . . . c . . . cold.”  
“Brisk maybe, but we have tea,” John smiled.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back, letting himself absorb the sun.   
John was glad of it. Sherlock hadn’t liked being outside. He was incredibly pallid and dark circles underlined his eyes.  
“How about we go to the zoo?” John asked.  
“O . . . o . . . kay.”   
John hailed a cab when they reached the street.  
As they drove, he held Sherlock’s hand. “Are you alright?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
The driver kept looking at them in the mirror. “You been on telly or something? You look familiar.”  
“No. Not famous,” John said.  
Sherlock looked out the window, not wanting to be recognized.  
“No. I’m sure I saw you somewhere. Gonna bug me all day.”  
“P . . . p . . . p . . . per . . . haps . . . you . . . s . . . s . . . saw . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . being . . . at . . . attack . . . ed . . . o . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . in . . .ter . . . net.” Sherlock sunk down in the seat, in misery.  
“It’s okay,” John whispered.  
“That’s right. You’re Sherlock Holmes. Hey man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”  
“He’ll be alright,” John said.  
Sherlock was shaking a bit and his face was blank, but John could tell he was upset.  
“Do you want to go home?” John whispered.  
Sherlock shook his head.   
They got out at the entrance to the zoo and paid the driver, who apologized again. John paid their admission. “Two adults,” he said.  
“We have special discounts for concessions for the disabled,” the woman behind the counter said. “If you’re an essential carer, you get free entry. Do you have any supporting documents?”  
“Um, no. He’s my boyfriend. Just two tickets then.”  
She looked at John with pity in her eyes. John glanced back at Sherlock and was sure he’d seen it.   
“Alright. You should look into that. Have a good time.”  
Sherlock was looking down at his hands. John could tell that he was mortified. His face had turned a blotchy mess of palest white and red.   
“You have a wonderful time,” the woman called out to Sherlock and John.  
Sherlock was breathing heavily, and John was sure he was trying not to cry.  
“I . . . I . . . d . . . dis . . . abled . . . n . . . n . . . now. S . . . sh . . . she . . . th . . . th . . . thinks . . . I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . p . . . p . . . piti . . . ed,” Sherlock whispered harshly.   
“You aren’t something to be pitied,” John said as he hunched down beside Sherlock.  
Sherlock couldn’t look at John. “S . . . sh . . . she . . . p . . . p . . . pitied . . . you . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . b . . . be . . . ing . . . st . . . st . . . stuck . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . m . . . me.”  
“Fuck her then,” John whispered vehemently.  
Sherlock looked up at John in shock, his wide eyes brimming with tears. Then he started to giggle. “F . . . f . . . f . .. fuck . . . h . . . her . . . in . . . d . . . deed.”  
John reached out and wiped the tears from his face and kissed his cheek as he started giggling too.  
Sherlock smiled at John. “W . . . w . . . why . . . a . . . are . . . you . . . s . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me?”  
“Because I love you,” John said, smiling at him.  
“I . . . I . . . I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . t . . . too.”  
“Well, now that that’s settled, let’s go see the animals.” John stood up and started pushing Sherlock’s wheelchair.  
They had a wonderful time. Sherlock ignored the stares and whispers as best he could, but each one seemed like a knife to his heart. But John was enjoying himself, and Sherlock didn’t want to spoil it for him.   
John checked his watch. “I better call your speech therapist. We’re not going to be back in time. Maybe we can reschedule it for two hours this afternoon.”  
John talked on his mobile. “She’ll be there at two.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Want some lunch?”  
Sherlock nodded again.  
Two exhibits farther and a small restaurant came into view. John sat down after he’d pushed Sherlock’s wheelchair under the table. He gave Sherlock a menu, and he pointed to the fish and chips.  
“That sounds good. I’ll go order them.”  
John was standing in line to order when a woman came up to Sherlock.   
“Can you face the other way? The scars on your face are scaring my little girl.”  
Sherlock looked up at her in shock. “I . . . I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . s . . . sorry.”  
“Really, you shouldn’t be here by yourself. You should be in a home. You’re that detective, aren’t you? The one on the internet who got kidnapped and . . . well. Sticking your nose into people’s business, probably got what you deserved.”  
Sherlock could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. He reached up to wipe them away.  
When she saw his hand, she gasped. “Oh my God, you’re disgusting. You shouldn’t be out with normal people. You should be locked away.”  
John was waiting at the counter and hadn’t heard any of it.  
The woman stalked away, taking her daughter with her.  
Sherlock sat frozen. The pain was almost overwhelming. He looked around. People who’d heard her avoided his eyes, looked away. Some looked disgusted. Others looked at him with pity.  
He wanted to disappear. He wanted to die. He wanted this to all be a dream.  
John returned and set down the tray. “These really look good. I got water, but we can get tea after.” John sat down and placed Sherlock’s lunch in front of him. He unscrewed the top of his water bottle. “Here, you want a drink?”  
When John finally looked up, he saw the pain on Sherlock’s face. “What’s wrong?”  
Sherlock sniffed hard, looking down at his hands.  
“What’s wrong, Sherlock? What happened?”  
A young man two tables away stood up and came over. “I’m sorry to interrupt. There was a woman who asked him to turn away saying his scars were upsetting her daughter. She told him he shouldn’t be in public. She knew who he was and said he probably deserved it. I’m sorry she said those things, Mr. Holmes.”  
John felt anger rising in him. He swallowed it as he leaned closer to Sherlock. “It’s alright, love.”  
“N . . . n . . . n . . . no.”  
“We’ll go home if you want.”  
“I . . . I . . . I . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . pr . . . pr . . . ove . . . h . . . h . . . her . . . r . . . r . . . right.”  
“About what?”  
“Th . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . sh . . . sh . . . sh . . . ould . . . b . . . be . . . in . . . a . . . h . . . h . . . home.”  
“Of course you don’t belong there. You belong at 221B with me.”  
“O . . . o . . . on . . . ly . . . p . . . pl . . . place . . . I . . . a . . . am . . . h . . . h . . . home . . . i . . . is . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . y . . . you.”  
John felt a lump in his throat. How foolish he’d ever been to deny his feelings for Sherlock. “I . . . I love you.”  
“I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
John kissed Sherlock’s cheek and helped him to eat. His own lunch sat heavy in his stomach as he tried to not let this get to him. When they’d finished, they didn’t bother with tea.   
“Y . . . y . . . you . . . r . . . t . . . t . . . tea . . . i . . . is . . . b . . . b . . . bett . . . er . . . any . . . w . . . way.”  
“Do you want to see the rest of the zoo?”  
“C . . . c . . . c . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . g . . . g . . . go . . . h . . . home?”  
“Of course. We don’t want to be late for your appointment, and you can have a little rest while we wait for her.” John knew Sherlock had had enough but just didn’t want to admit it to John and, probably to himself. John was still seething about what was done to Sherlock and made a mental note to tell Mycroft about it. He looked around and noticed closed circuit cameras near where they were seated, and he was sure Mycroft could get a hold of the footage.  
John cleaned up their table and disposed of the empty plates and cups.   
John started through to the nearest exit. He found a cab there and helped Sherlock in. By the time they got home, Sherlock’s head was resting on John’s shoulder and he was softly snoring.  
“Wake up, love. We’re home,” John said as he paid the cabbie.  
Sherlock woke slowly and seemed to remember something when he woke fully. John wished he could take the memory away somehow. He was furious that someone would say something like that to Sherlock.  
“Let’s get you inside,” he said as they went into 221B.   
Mrs. Hudson met them at the door. “Oh, John, Sherlock. I was just going out to the shops. Would you like to join me?”  
“We’ve just come from the zoo and had lunch. Sherlock’s got the speech therapist coming soon. We moved the morning appointment to this afternoon.”  
“Maybe another time, then?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
“Sure. Oh,” John said as he retrieved a few pounds from his pocket. “Could you pick me up some milk for us?”  
“Of course. No problem.”  
Sherlock remained quiet, staring at his hands. “S . . . s . . . see . . . you . . . l . . . l . . . ater.”  
Mrs. Hudson tried, John could tell, not to look at Sherlock and cry, but he could see the pity and sadness in her eyes. Sherlock saw it too, and he grimaced and looked down.  
“I’ll be back soon,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
John took Sherlock upstairs and took off his coat and hat. “Bed?” he asked.  
Sherlock nodded.  
John wheeled him into the bedroom and helped him into bed. He sat down beside him. “I know that wasn’t easy for you. I’m sorry that person was so nasty to you. She didn’t have any right. You’re the best person I know. If all she can see is the outside, she’s a very sad person.”  
“I . . . I . . . I . . . sc . . . sc . . . scared . . . h . . . h . . . her . . . d . . . daugh . . . ter. I . . . I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . sh . . . sh . . . should . . . g . . . g . . . go . . . pl . . . pl . . . aces . . . wh . . . wh . . . where . . . ch . . . ch . . . child . . . ren . . . a . . . are. I . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . sh . . . sh . . . should . . . j . . . j . . . just . . . st . . . st . . . stay . . . h . . . h . . . here.”  
“No. You can’t let one experience ruin things for you. You can’t isolate yourself.”  
Sherlock grabbed his laptop. “THE WOMAN AT THE TICKET COUNTER SAW ALL THE LOOKS I GOT. PEOPLE THINK I SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO BE IN PUBLIC,” Sherlock whispered. “MAYBE THEY’RE RIGHT. MAYBE I SHOULD BE IN A HOME. I SHOULD BE HIDDEN AWAY.”  
“No, Sherlock. You have every right to go anywhere you want to be. No one has the right to tell you where to go or what to do. You don’t need to hide.”  
Sherlock shrugged and wouldn’t look at John. “I AM DISGUSTING NOW JOHN. NO ONE WANTS TO LOOK AT ME. NO ONE WANTS TO BE AROUND ME. SHE TOLD ME I PROBABLY DESERVED WHAT HAPPENED TO ME. MAYBE I DID. IF I HAD NOT FALLEN IN LOVE WITH YOU, MARY WOULD NOT HVE DONE THIS.”  
“You didn’t deserve this. No one deserved what happened to you. And certainly no one should be punished for loving. Mary is . . . disturbed. She was as disturbed as Moriarty. I won’t have you going to a home. I love you too much to have you lock yourself away from the world. Your life isn’t over. You can’t let small-minded people control you. You have every right to go places and do things. You can do anything you want. You don’t have to hide here.”  
“I FEEL SELF CONSCIOUS AROUND PEOPLE, JOHN. I KNOW I AM UGLY NOW. I CAN FEEL THE DISGUST AND THE PITY. I HATE IT. YOU ARE NOT THE ONE WHO HAS TO FEEL IT. I KNOW PEOPLE PITY YOU WHEN THEY REALIZE I AM YOUR BOYFRIEND. ASK ANY OF THEM AND THEY WILL TELL YOU SO.”  
“I don’t care what they think about me.”  
“BECAUSE YOU NEVER HAD TO LIVE WITH BEING MADE FUN OF ALL OF YOUR LIFE.”  
“People teased me for being short.”  
“THEY DID NOT CALL YOU A FREAK, A PSYCHOPATH. YOU WERE NOT BEATEN, SPIT ON, TREATED LIKE DIRT, OSTRACIZED, ISOLATED. MY MOTHER TENDED MY WOUNDS ALMOST EVERY DAY I WAS IN SCHOOL. MYCROFT MADE FUN OF ME, TELLING ME I WAS STUPID TO LET IT BOTHER ME. BUT IT DOES. I HATE THAT I CAN NEVER BLEND IN IF I WANT TO. I WILL ALWAYS BE STARED AT. I WILL ALWAYS BE DIFFERENT. I WILL NEVER BE NORMAL. I WAS SPECIAL ONCE. I AT LEAST HAD MY MIND. NOW THERE IS NOTHING LEFT OF ME. I CANNOT BE SPECIAL OR EVEN ORDINARY. I AM NOTHING NOW.”  
“You aren’t nothing. You’re the man I love. I’ll always love you, Sherlock. You can’t think of yourself that way.”  
“ALL I HAVE LEFT IS MY TRANSPORT. I DID NOT MIND IF IT GOT DAMAGED AS LONG AS MY MIND WAS ALRIGHT. NOW ALL PEOPLE WILL SEE IS HOW DAMAGED I AM. THEY WILL HEAR ME STUDDERING AND THINK THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME. THEY SEE THE SCARS. AT LEAST BEFORE, MY BODY AND FACE WERE PASSABLE. I WAS TOO THIN AND GANGLY AND FAR FROM HANDSOME BUT PEOPLE DID NOT STARE. HOW CAN YOU WANT THIS? OH MY LOVE, I WOULD GIVE ANYTHING IF I COULD HAVE MY OLD BODY BACK. EVEN WITH THE BULLET SCAR AND THE SCARS ON MY BACK.”  
“What scars on your back? Heaven knows I saw you wandering around here naked enough. I never saw any scars on your back.”  
Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes wide, like he’d said something he hadn’t meant to.  
“IT WAS NOTHING. I MISSPOKE.”  
“Don’t give me that. You don’t misspeak.”  
“JUST LEAVE IT, JOHN.”  
“No. I won’t leave it. Where did you get scars on your back?”  
Sherlock looked down at his hands. “IT DOES NOT MATTER NOW, JOHN. THEY ARE MORE THAN COVERED BY THE NEW SCARS. CAN I HAVE A DRINK OF WATER?”  
“You’re not getting away with not telling me. I’m your partner. You shouldn’t lie to your partner.” He stood up and went out to the kitchen, returning with an opened bottle of water with a straw. He held the straw to Sherlock’s lips.  
Sherlock hung his head after he finished drinking. He looked so defeated. “SERBIA.”  
“When you were away chasing Moriarty’s men?”  
Sherlock nodded, clearly not wanting to remember.  
“Listen, love. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable . . .”  
Sherlock started to type. “NO. WE ARE TOGETHER NOW. I OUGHT TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH. I KNEW I HAD JUST THE SERBIAN ORGANIZATION LEFT TO TAKE OUT, LED BY BARON MAUPERTUIS. I WAS SO EXCITED BECAUSE I KNEW, ONCE I WAS DONE, I COULD COME HOME TO YOU. AND I LET MY GUARD DOWN. I WAS CAPTURED AND TAKEN TO AN ARMY BASE. I WAS TORTURED FOR WEEKS: BEATINGS, WHIPPINGS, SLEEP DEPRIVATION, STRESS POSITIONS, PSYCHOLOGICAL TORMENT. I GAVE THEM A FALSE NAME THAT WAS A CODE WORD FOR MYCROFT TO COME AND RESCUE ME.”  
“You had whip scars?”  
“THEY USED A WHIP. ONE USED A SCREWDRIVER ON MY BACK. ANOTHER PREFERRED A METAL PIPE. HE CRACKED SEVERAL RIBS. I WAS BLACK AND BLUE FOR WEEKS.”  
“W . . . when did all this happen?”  
“RIGHT BEFORE MYCROFT RESCUED ME.”  
John’s face paled. “You mean, when I hit you . . . when I knocked you on your back, you were hurt? Your back was full of open wounds?”  
Sherlock nodded slightly.  
John held his hand over his mouth, horrified. “Oh God. You hurried back to see me, to tell me how much you loved me and I . . . I beat you. I threw you on your back twice.”  
“I HAD TO GO TO MOLLY SO SHE COULD SEW THEM BACK UP.”  
“Oh, Sherlock. I . . . I’m so sorry. I was so angry. I . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  
“THE SCARS ARE GONE NOW, JOHN. IT IS OKAY.”  
“No, it’s not. I hurt you physically and emotionally that day. I’ve hurt you so much over the years.”  
“BUT I LOVE YOU. I ALWAYS HAVE. ALWAYS WILL. I HAVE NOT BEEN THE EASIEST PERSON TO GET ALONG WITH. AND NOT NOW. PLEASE DO NOT SAY BAD THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF.”  
“Sherlock, I’ve hurt you. I really have. All that time we wasted. All that time we could have been together.”  
“BUT YOU WOULDN’T HAVE YOUR CHILDREN.”  
John looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have Rosie. But you’ve paid such a heavy price . . .”  
“SHE MAKES YOU HAPPY JOHN. ALL OF WHAT HAPPENED TO ME WAS WORTH IT SO LONG AS YOU ARE HAPPY.”  
“But Sherlock, I don’t want this for you. I don’t want you suffering every day for the rest of your life. I hate that you feel inferior now. I hate the you feel like you can’t be in public.”  
“I KNOW YOU DO NOT WANT THIS FOR ME. AND I LOVE IT ABOUT YOU. BUT THIS CANNOT BE CHANGED. I AM A PARAPLEGIC. I CANNOT USE MY HANDS. I CANNOT SPEAK RIGHT. MY MIND IS A MESS. I AM SCARRED EVERYWHERE. I DO NOT DESERVE YOU JOHN. YOU DESERVE SOMEONE WHOLE. SOMEONE WHO IS NOT BROKEN.”  
“But I love you. You’re the only person I’ll ever want in my life. Remember we said that it’s you and me against the world. There’s a song I really like and part of the lyrics go. ‘There is no them . . . there is no them . . . There’s only us. There’s only us. There is no them. There is no them. There’s only you and there’s only me. There is no them,’” John crooned. “The hell with everyone else. There’s just us. You and I. We’re all that’s important. Our lives. Our family. Our friends. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. They’re small-minded idiots.”  
Sherlock’s mouth quirked at the use of idiots.   
They heard the lift engage and realized Dr. Stewart was coming.  
John squeezed Sherlock’s hand and kissed him. “Have a good session, love. We’ll talk more after, okay?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John got up and greeted Dr. Stewart and closed the door as the doctor greeted Sherlock.  
He put the kettle on, realizing he’d forgotten to give Sherlock his tea. He took a cup in to Sam and Dr. Russell.  
He sat down in his chair and rang Mycroft.  
“Ah, John. How can I help you?”  
“We were at a restaurant at the London Zoo. I went to get our lunch and a woman approached Sherlock telling him to turn away because he was scaring her daughter. She recognized him and told him he probably deserved it. I want you to find her. She needs to know that her petty bigotries are going to cost her. There was a closed-circuit camera right by us.”  
“She did what?”  
“He was heartbroken, but he wouldn’t let us leave. He said we had to eat lunch. This was after the woman at the counter going in called him disabled. And there were a lot of sideways looks.”  
“Well, I believe that there might be several people to talk to then. Leave it to me.”  
“Thank you, Mycroft. Perhaps you would come by tonight for dinner. I’m sure he’d love to have you here.”  
“I will. Thank you. I’ll be glad to see him.”  
“See you then.”  
John felt strangely satisfied knowing that those people would be punished for hurting Sherlock. The anger still percolated inside him. He hated the memory of the hurt on Sherlock’s face. He only wanted him happy.  
But John also felt incredibly guilty. He’d hurt Sherlock. He’d opened up fresh wounds on his back when he came back from Serbia. He punched in a number in his mobile.  
“Hi, John. How are you?”  
“I’m okay. How are you, Molly?”  
“Up to my elbows in a cadaver right now. Is there something I can help you with? How’s Sherlock?”  
“He’s had a rough few days. We went to the zoo today and some ignorant woman told him he shouldn’t be out in public.”  
“Oh, no. That must have awful for him.”  
“It was. I was in line getting our lunch and didn’t see it or I’d have put a stop to it.”  
“Is he still upset?”  
“Not too bad. I have to ask you something.”  
“Sure.”  
“When he came back to us, after the fall. He came to you to get stitched up, right?”  
“Um. I . . .”  
“He told me about it. I . . . I did that to him. I need to know.”  
“Well . . .”  
“Please, Molly. He’s going to underplay it. I need to know the truth.”  
“There were several gouges taken out of his back. He said it was with a screwdriver. And there were a lot of whip marks. I had to help him peel off his shirt. It was completely soaked in blood. There were about ten wounds that were reopened. I had to restitch them. He let me use a local on him, but I could tell he was in pain. He tried so hard not to let me see but I saw the tears in his eyes. He thanked me and kissed me on the forehead before he left.  
“I had asked him how it happened. He told me in Serbia. But I asked him what tore open the stitches. He didn’t want to tell me but I pushed. He told me it was you, but he insisted it was his fault not yours. That he had miscalculated and had picked the wrong way to announce to you that he was back. I was so angry with you, but he told me not to be. He said he understood why you were angry, and he didn’t blame you. And he asked about Mary. I told him, and I could see how upset he was. He cried in my arms for a few minutes before he wiped the tears from his face and left.”  
“Oh God. I did that to him. I hurt him so badly.”  
“He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”  
“But I do. And I should. He fought so hard to come back to me. And I did that to him.”  
“You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. You believed he’d left to go on an adventure without you. That he didn’t care about you.”  
“That’s no excuse.” John felt the guilt crashing over him in waves. “I . . . I can’t ever forgive myself for this.” His voice broke.   
“John. Don’t do this to yourself. Sherlock would feel guilty for making you feel like this. You know that. Let me guess, he let it slip. He didn’t mean to tell you.”  
“No, he didn’t.”  
“And this is why. He knew you’d feel like this. Don’t let him see you like this. If you’re going to feel bad, do it on your own time. He’s got enough to deal with right now.”  
“You’re right. I know you’re right. Thank you for telling me, Molly. I appreciate it.”  
“Bye John.”  
“Bye.”  
John knew he could never make this up to Sherlock. And he would never stop feeling bad about it. But he couldn’t let Sherlock know. The best he could do was be normal for Sherlock. John was going to make Sherlock a great dinner. His favourites. And a long evening of cuddling.  
Sherlock was tired already from the trip and two hours of speech therapy plus an hour with Dr. Cooper would have him completely worn out.   
John told Sam he was going for a walk and to pick up a few things at Tesco. He asked him to call him if Sherlock needed anything.  
He bought a nice roast for dinner and some potatoes and fresh vegetables. He also picked out a lovely chocolate cake, Sherlock’s (and Rosie’s) favourite.  
When he got back to the flat, he turned on the oven and seasoned the meat. He peeled the potatoes and set them in the refrigerator along with the chopped-up vegetables.  
He’d checked on the roast once before Dr. Stewart came out. She was a few minutes early.  
“Session go okay?”  
“Yes. He’s making good progress. He told me what happened out in public. I felt so bad for him. No one has the right to treat someone like Sherlock that way.”  
“I agree.”  
“I thought I’d let him off a few minutes early. He seems tired and a bit discouraged.”  
“I’ll go in and check on him. Thanks for being able to switch your schedule around. It’s hard getting time to take him out with three appointments every day.”  
“I can well understand. I’m fairly flexible. If you want to take him out again, just let me know. As I said, he’s making good progress. He doesn’t seem to think so, but he really is. A few months and we’ll be down to one session a day.”  
“Do you think he’ll be able to recover completely?”  
“There may be a bit of a stutter but not a large one. I’m detecting a bit of a lisp too. Did he have one as a child?”  
“I don’t know. Just a second.” John got out his mobile and called Mycroft again.  
“John, my, twice in one day.”  
“Hello Mycroft. I’m with Dr. Stewart. She wanted to know if Sherlock had a lisp when he was a boy. I’d ask him but that seems to be something he might feel self-conscious discussing.”  
“Yes, he had quite a lisp. It took years of therapy to get rid of it — though if you listen when he’s excited, it’s still there a bit. He was teased unmercifully for it, I’m afraid.”  
“So that must be why he’s so self-conscious about his speech now.”  
“I assume so.”  
“Thanks. See you tonight.”  
“A bientôt.”  
John hung up. “Yes, he did have quite a lisp when he was younger. Mycroft said it took years of therapy to get rid of it. He was teased about it. I can see why he’s so anxious to talk again. He’s afraid of being teased again. I can think of a person or two who just might do it. He’s having a hard-enough time.”  
“He’s working very hard. I think it’s partly a self-esteem issue.”  
“He’s always had a problem with self-esteem. If I can catch Dr. Cooper before he goes in. I’ll mention it to him. Thanks again.”  
She smiled at him and pressed the lift button.  
John made some tea and took it in to Sherlock.  
Sherlock was sitting, looking out the window, a sombre look on his face.  
“You okay?” John asked as he sat down.  
“N . . . n . . . no. I . . . I . . . m . . . made . . . a . . . m . . . m . . . mess . . . w . . . wh . . en . . . D . . . D . . . Doc . . . tor . . . R . . . Rus . . . sell . . . w . . . was . . . h . . . here.”  
It was rather pungent in the room. “It’s not your fault. Do you want me to clean you up?”  
Sherlock looked up at him in horror. “O . . . o . . . of . . . c . . . course . . . n . . . n . . . not. Pl . . . pl . . . pl . . . ease . . . a . . . a . . . sk . . . S . . . Sam.”  
John knew Sherlock was embarrassed. He went out and got Sam and waited until Sam came out again before returning.  
“C . . . c . . . can . . . you . . . o . . . op . . . en . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . win . . . dow?”  
John walked over and opened the window and sat down beside Sherlock. “It’s alright. It’s a natural function and right now you don’t have complete control over it. It isn’t your fault. I’m sure Dr. Stewart understood. She didn’t even mention it. She just said how well you’re doing in your sessions.”  
“D . . . d . . . does . . . nt . . . f . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . I’m . . . d . . . d . . . doing . . . w . . . w . . . well.”  
“You’re impatient. It hasn’t been that long since your accident. I know you’re tired of hearing it, but you have to give it time.”  
“I . . . i . . . is . . . a . . . ll . . . I . . . I . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . is . . . t . . .t . . . time.”  
“And me.”  
Sherlock smiled. “A . . . a . . . and . . . you. You . . . a . . . are . . . th . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . mos . . . t . . . im . . . por . . . tant . . . p . . . p . . . per . . . son . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . l . . . life. You . . . kn . . . kn . . . ow . . . th . . . th . . . that.”  
John smiled at him. Guilt stabbed at him.  
“I . . . I’m . . . t . . . t . . . tired.”  
John looked at his watch. “Only about forty-five minutes until Dr. Cooper comes. You’ve got time for a catnap.”  
Sherlock snuggled into his pillow as John pulled up the covers. He fell asleep soon afterwards.  
John laid down beside him. He was just beginning to nod off about twenty minutes later when Sherlock began to stir. He moved slowly, languorously, as his hands moved towards his face. It looked as if he was trying to move his legs towards the edge of the bed, but they weren’t moving much. He stroked his fingers down his face and grinned.  
“What’re you doing, love?” John asked.  
“N . . . n . . . night . . . m . . . mare.” Sherlock’s eyes opened wide in shock, and he looked at his hands, his face devastated. “N . . . n . . . no. No. Noooooo!” he howled, as he covered his face with his hands and sobbed.  
“What is it? What’s wrong?”  
Sherlock sobbed louder. “I . . . I . . . I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . un . . . un . . . under . . . s . . . st . . . and.”  
“Understand what?” John tried to pry Sherlock’s hands away from his face but couldn’t. He took Sherlock into his arms. “You’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”  
“I . . . I . . . f . . . f . . . felt . . . m . . . my . . . fin . . . g . . . gers . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . l . . . legs. I . . . f . . . felt . . . th . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . t . . . touch . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . f . . . face. I . . . f . . . f . . . felt . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . l . . . legs . . . m . . . m . . . move.”  
“It’s called phantom limb. Is it mostly in the morning?”  
“N . . . n . . . no . . .t . . . al . . . al . . . ways.”  
“Do they feel like they hurt?”  
“S . . . s . . . some . . . t . . .t . . . times.”  
“Why haven’t you told me about it?”  
Sherlock snuggled into John’s arms. “Y . . . you . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . e . . . en . . . ough . . . t . . .to . . . w . . . wor . . . ry . . . a . . . about.”  
“Don’t keep your pain away from me. I don’t want you to suffer and not tell me.”  
“Y . . . you . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . n . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . w . . . worry. I . . . I ‘m . . . u . . . used . . . to . . . p . . . pain.”  
John squeezed Sherlock. “I know. You’re so brave, love. But I don’t want you keeping secrets. So your missing fingers and your legs hurt?”  
“L . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . f . . . f . . . fire.”  
“I wish there was something I could give you. But there hasn’t been much that works. Morphine is out of the question.”  
“I . . . kn . . . kn . . . ow . . . it . . . s . . . psy . . . co . . . sy . . . sy . . . mat . . . mat . . . ic. B . . . b . . . but . . . it . . . f . . . f . . . feels . . . s . . . so . . . r . . . real.”  
“It’s not psychosomatic. It’s real pain. Sixty to eighty percent of amputees feel their limbs after their gone. Sometimes it’s painful, sometimes not. Sometimes it just feels like the limb is still there. Are you sure it’s not all the time?”  
“N . . . n . . . no. J . . . j . . . just . . . some . . . t . . . t . . . times. Wh . . . when . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . wake . . . s . . . sl . . . slow . . . ly. Some . . . t . . . times . . . I . . . I . . . f . . . for . . . g . . . get . . . a . . . and . . . I . . . t . . . try . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . m . . . move . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . legs . . . o . . . o . . . or . . . p . . . p . . . pick . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . u . . . u . . . up.”  
“It’s very common. I saw it a lot in Afghanistan.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“I’ll get you a parmacetomol, okay?”  
“A . . . and . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . w . . . wa . . . ter.”  
“Alright.”  
John brought it in to Sherlock with a lovely doughnut. He had checked the roast too, which was filling the flat with a lovely smell.  
“D . . . d . . . d . . . din . . . ner . . . s . . . sm . . . ells . . . g . . . g . . . good.”  
“It’s just a roast. I’ve got the vegetables cut up so I just have to pop them on the stove before your brother comes.”  
“M . . . M . . . My . . . c . . . c . . . coming?”  
“Yes. I invited him.”  
“O . . . o . . . kay.”  
They sat in companionable silence.  
“J . . . J . . . John?”  
“Yes.”  
“You . . . c . . . c . . . could . . . m . . . m . . . may . . . be . . . g . . . get . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . one . . . o . . . of . . . th . . . th . . . those . . . c . . . cup . . .s . . . th . . . th . . . that . . . l . . . l . . . lit . . . tle . . . k . . . kids . . . u . . . u . . . use. Th . . . th . . . then . . . you . . . w . . . w . . . would . . . nt . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hel . . .p . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . t . . . tea.”  
“A sippy cup? Sherlock, are you sure?”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . th . . . they’re . . . f . . . for . . . ba . . . ba . . . bies. B . . . b . . . but . . . i . . . if . . . it . . . s . . . j . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . for . . . h . . . here . . . I . . . w . . . won . . . t . . . m . . . mind.”  
“If you’re sure.”  
“I . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . won . . . t . . . s . . . s . . . sp . . . ill.”  
“And it gives you a bit more independence this way. One less thing you have to depend on someone else to do for you.”  
Sherlock nodded. “M . . . m . . . m . . . may . . . be . . . th . . . th . . . they . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . th . . .th . . those . . . b . . . ba . . . by . . . sp . . . sp . . . oons . . . I . . . in . . . a . . . bi . . . gger . . . s . . . size.”  
“Maybe. I can look online and see what I can find.”  
“M . . . may . . . b . . . be . . . I . . . I . . . c . . . c . . . could . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . w . . . weights. J . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . the . . . litt . . . le . . . ones . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . h . . . hands.”  
“It might work. Strengthen them some. That’s a good idea.”  
“R . . . r . . . real . . . ly?” Sherlock looked at John. “Th . . . th . . . that’s . . . n . . . n . . . not . . . w . . . wh . . . what . . . p . . . p . . . peo . . .ple . . . n . . . nor . . . m . . . ally . . . s . . .s . . . say.”  
“What do they normally say?” John said, smiling before he answered, “Piss off” as Sherlock said, “P . . . p . . . piss . . . o . . . o . . . off.”  
They both giggled like little children.   
“I think I’ll check the roast and go for a bit of a walk while Dr. Cooper’s here.”  
Sherlock nodded.   
Sherlock reached for his laptop. “ANY PLACE SPECIAL?”  
“No, just a stroll. Maybe I’ll go to Tesco for a cup for you.”  
“I WOULD APPRECIATE IT.”  
“Anything for you, love.” John bent closer to Sherlock and kissed him.  
Sherlock deepened the kiss, his fingers finding their way into John’s hair. John reciprocated, steering clear of the bald spot. John moved closer until they sat chest to chest. He wanted more than anything to kiss down his neck, lick each freckle and mole, take off his shirt, and kiss and lick down his body. He wanted Sherlock so much. All of him. John wanted their first time to come soon. Pushing Sherlock would cause more harm than good. But, oh, how he wanted. He knew Sherlock wanted him too. But he’d only just accepted what had happened to him.  
Sherlock moaned deep in his throat. His hands were shaking.  
He broke apart from John and rested his forehead against John’s. “OH JOHN I LOVE YOU. I WANT YOU SO MUCH.”  
“I want you too. But we have to wait. It’s not time yet.”  
“TIME. I HATE THAT WORD.”  
“So do I. I wish . . . but it’s too soon.”  
“WILL ALWAYS BE TOO SOON,” Sherlock typed, frowning.  
“Not forever,” John said quietly. “But not until you’re ready.”  
“I WANT YOU SO. AND THEY RUINED IT.”  
“We can’t let them ruin it.”  
“I DO NOT THINK WE HAVE A CHOICE. I FEEL THEM ALL THE TIME JOHN. IT ONLY GOES AWAY WHEN I AM WITH YOU. WHEN WE ARE TOGETHER, TALKING OR HOLDING EACH OTHER. BUT IF WE TOUCH . . . I DO NOT KNOW.”  
“We could try something. Tonight, when we go to bed. We’ll sit across from each other and you touch me where you feel safe, and I can touch you in the same spot. We can do this every night, if you want, to see if we make any progress.”  
“THAT SOUNDS VERY GOOD. WE CAN DO IT SLOWLY IF YOU WANT US TO, AND GET TO A POINT WHEN WE CAN DO MORE THAN TOUCH.”  
“And we can get Dr. Cooper to continue the therapy.”  
“HE SEEMS A BIT SLUGGISH ON THAT.”  
“Maybe he doesn’t think you’re ready.”  
“MAYBE. BUT I CANNOT LET THOSE FIVE DAYS AND THAT NIGHT IN THE HOSPITAL DEFINE MY WHOLE LIFE. I LOVE YOU JOHN. I HAVE WAITED SO LONG TO BE WITH YOU.”  
“But, there’s so much of a chance of triggering your PTSD.”  
“I KNOW. BUT I DO THINK THAT YOUR SUGGESTION WILL WORK. WE CAN DO IT TONIGHT.”  
John smiled and kissed Sherlock again.  
When Dr. Cooper came, John pulled him aside and told him about Sherlock’s fear of not being able to talk and that they wanted to move towards a more physical relationship.  
“I will certainly discuss it more with him. I think it prudent to wait as to the question of sexual intercourse. He isn’t ready, and I don’t believe he will be for quite some time.”  
“I’m not pushing him into anything at all. He wants me and I want him, but we both know it’s too soon. We’re taking it very slowly. I don’t want our first time to trigger him.”  
“That’s good. I’ll discuss it with him.”  
John checked on the roast before putting his coat on and taking a walk. He stopped into Tesco and picked up the biggest sippy cup he could find. He walked through the streets around Baker Street for a half hour before he started back.  
When he got back, he checked the roast again. Rosie would be home soon. He had a few biscuits left over from the last batch Mrs. Hudson had made and got out some for Rosie and some for Sherlock.  
The kettle had boiled as he washed the sippy cup out.  
Dr. Cooper came out of the bedroom.  
“How is he?” John asked.  
“A bit upset. He discussed what happened at the zoo and possible future outings. He also talked about his sex life, and I urged him to take things very slowly.”  
“May I ask why?”  
“He isn’t ready.”  
“Isn’t that up to him?”  
“Ultimately. I’m giving him advice. He was terribly traumatized by what those men did to him. And he should be. He was violently raped by those five men and then the two in the hospital. He’s apt to have flashbacks if he engages in sexual activity. He’s apt to be triggered by sexual activity.”  
“I realize that. But we’re being proactive. We’re working on it slowly. I would never, ever want to trigger him. I know how devastating flashbacks can be, and I wouldn’t want to ever cause one. We’re not just doing this because we’re two men who want to have sex with each other. Sherlock’s only ever wanted me. In his whole life. I’m incredibly honoured by that. I want his first time, and in every way that counts, it will be his first time, to be special. I’m so afraid. I’ll do something wrong and hurt him. Not because I think it will turn him off sex for good but because I love him and I don’t want him hurt by anyone, not ever again. I’m scared to death, but he wants it. He wants to try and get his life back — or as much of his life as he can. He’s so afraid that I’ll leave him. He’s so afraid that I don’t want him. That I’m disgusted by his body and by . . . by what they did to him. I am disgusted by what they did, but by them never with him. And he has to know it. So we’re being proactive. We’re working towards it. But slowly. I’ve dealt with rape victims before, in my practice. I know what stressors to look for.”  
He studied him for a moment. “Exercise extreme caution, John.”  
“I will. We will.”  
He shook his hand as he left.  
John filled the sippy cup with tea and took it into the bedroom.  
Sherlock was sitting looking out the window, deep in thought.  
“You okay?” John asked.  
“HE THINKS I SHOULDN’T LET THAT WOMAN AT THE ZOO BOTHER ME. HE SAYS I NEED TO GET USED TO IT. THAT THERE WILL ALWAYS BE PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY ARE BETTER THAN ME. AND HE KEPT SAYING WE HAVE TO WAIT.”  
“Do you think he’s right?”  
“NO. I THINK WE SHOULD DO WHAT WE PLANNED.”  
“I brought your tea. You want to try?”  
John helped Sherlock use his remaining fingers to clutch the sippy cup’s handle tightly. His hands shook but he couldn’t spill, with the result that he was able to drink on his own for the first time since before the kidnapping. Sherlock almost beamed with happiness.  
“Good for you, love,” John said as he kissed him soundly.  
“ONE THING I DON’T HAVE TO DEPEND ON OTHER PEOPLE FOR.”  
“That’s great. If you need a glass, all you need is a straw. We can work on getting spoons so you can eat. Maybe your brother can help with that.”  
“MAYBE.”  
“Every little bit helps after all.”  
Sherlock nodded, happily drinking his tea. “I ALWAYS SAY YOU MAKE THE BEST TEA.”  
“Don’t let Mrs. Hudson hear you.”  
Sherlock laughed — a deep, warm chuckle that had John smiling from ear to ear. It was wonderful to hear Sherlock laugh, especially after all that had gone on.   
“Oh, I forgot the biscuits,” John said as he set his own tea down and went to get them.   
He helped Sherlock with them and ate of his own. Sherlock wanted his dipped in tea. Since he couldn’t get his cup open, he asked John to dip them in his.  
John did and laughed as Sherlock gladly ate them. “No afraid of my germs?”  
“CONSIDER WHAT I WANT TO DO WITH YOU. I THINK WE’RE BEYOND WORRYING ABOUT GERMS.” Sherlock smiled.  
John felt himself blushing.  
“DON’T BE EMBARRASSED, LOVE. IT WILL BE AWHILE YET. I WANT TO WAIT UNTIL I GET THE ALL CLEAR FROM THE DOCTOR.”  
“All clear?”  
“HIV TEST. FIVE MORE MONTHS AND A BIT.”  
John sobered immediately. Although he knew HIV was no longer a death sentence, he didn’t want anything else to hurt Sherlock. Though the men at the hospital and the men who kidnapped Sherlock had used condoms, the kidnappers had beaten him bloody and no doubt cut open their knuckles plus they had ejaculated in his mouth. His first tests had been negative. But he needed to be tested again three months after the last attack and three months after that. Sherlock didn’t want them to have sex until he was sure he was safe.  
“There is such a thing as safe sex,” John said. “It minimizes the risk. I certainly know how it works.”  
“I KNOW BUT I DON’T WANT TO TAKE A CHANCE WITH YOUR HEALTH. I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH.”  
“I appreciate that, Sherlock. But we could have a full and very satisfying sex life regardless, with minimum danger of passing along the virus.”  
“ONLY IF THERE WAS ZERO PERCENT CHANCE.”  
“Sherlock . . .”  
“ONLY THEN. I WANT YOU SO MUCH JOHN. PROMISE ME. PROMISE ME IF WE WEAKEN THAT YOU’LL SAY NO. I WOULD NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF.” Sherlock’s face was deadly serious. “PLEASE PROMISE ME.”  
“I promise,” John said, his eyes filling with tears.  
“I LOVE YOU.”  
“I love you, more than life.” John kissed Sherlock gently. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “We’ll be okay. I promise you. I know that we’ll be okay. You’ll be alright. We’ll build our lives together. You’ll keep getting better.”  
“IT’S JUST ALWAYS THERE. IN THE BACK OF MY MIND. IT WON’T GO AWAY.”  
“I know, love. I think about it too. But you can’t let it eat you up. There’s nothing we can do about it. Only . . .”  
“BLOODY TIME.” Sherlock was clearly exasperated. “THAT’S ALL I HAVE TO WAIT. FOR EVERYTHING.”  
“It’s frustrating. You’re frustrated. I understand. But we’ll wait together, hey?”  
Sherlock sighed and leaned his head against John’s shoulder. “I HATE THIS.”  
“I know you do. So do I. But we have each other. Your life is my life now.”  
“REALLY?”  
“Of course. I’ve never felt closer to another person in my life than how I feel about you.”  
“ME NEITHER.”  
John closed his eyes and breathed in the warm cozy smell of their bedroom. Sitting beside the man he loved who was warm and cozy and safe. And he knew. He knew with a certainty that would or could never be shaken. “This is the place. This is where I’m meant to be. Where I’m always meant to be. Here, with you. You make this my home. As long as I’m with you, I’m home,” he whispered as he kissed Sherlock’s forehead.  
“YOU’RE MY HOME TOO. I NEVER KNEW WHAT HOME WAS UNTIL I MOVED HERE WITH YOU.”  
“Not with your parents?”  
“I FELT LIKE I WAS AN AFTERTHOUGHT SOMETIMES. HEIR AND A SPARE AS THEY SAY. I TALKED TOO MUCH. I WAS INTO EVERYTHING. I MADE MESSES. MY LOOKED DOWN HIS NOSE AT ME ESPECIALLY AFTER HE WENT AWAY TO SCHOOL. AND FORD WAS THE BABY. THEY DOTED ON HIM. I HAD NO FRIENDS. I WAS VERY LONLEY. I FELT LIKE I DIDN’T BELONG. I BELONG HERE WITH YOU.”  
“I belong with you too. You must have had someone when you were young.”  
“JUST MY DOG. HE WAS MY WHOLE WORLD. BUT HE DIED. I WAS HEARTBROKEN. THAT IS WHEN MY STARTED TELLING ME THAT CARING WAS NOT AN ADVANTAGE. I NEVER REALLY GOT OVER IT.”  
“No person at all?”  
“I HAD A VIOLIN TUTOR WHEN I WAS EIGHT. HE USED TO GIVE ME TREATS AND MAKE ME LAUGH. HE WOULD REWARD ME IF I PLAYED WELL WITH HUGS AND KISSES.”  
John felt the hair start to stand up on the back of his neck. “D . . . did he do anything else?”  
“WHEN I HAD BEEN TAKING LESSONS FOR ALMOST A YEAR, HE ASKED IF I WOULD DO SOMETHING FOR HIM. HE SAID IF I DID IT, HE WOULD ENTER ME IN A COMPETITION AND GIVE ME MORE AND MORE DIFFICULT PIECES.”  
“What did he want you to do?” John asked, fearing the answer.  
“HE ASKED ME TO PLAY IN THE NUDE. HE SAID IT WOULD HELP MY CONCENTRATION.”   
John was horrified.  
“I DID NOT SEE THE HARM IN IT. I WAS TOO YOUNG, TOO NAÏVE. SO I PLAYED FOR HIM. I ALWAYS PLAY WITH MY EYES CLOSED, AT LEAST ONCE I KNEW IT. I WOULD PLAY AND SWAY BACK AND FORTH, LOST IN THE MUSIC. SOMETIMES HE WOULD HAVE A FUNNY LOOK ON HIS FACE AND WOULD GO OFF TO HIS ROOM FOR A FEW MINUTES BEFORE COMING BACK RELAXED AND SMILING. HE WOULD HUG ME AND KISS ME AND TELL ME I WAS BEAUTIFUL LIKE A MARBLE STATUE. NO ONE EVER TOLD ME I WAS BEAUTIFUL. I DID NOT KNOW WHAT TO THINK. I ASKED MUMMY WHEN I GOT HOME IF SHE THOUGHT I WAS BEAUTIFUL. SHE SAID IT WAS A STRANGE QUESTION. I SAID THEY TOLD ME I WAS UGLY AT SCHOOL, WHICH THEY HAD. SHE HUGGED ME AND TOLD ME OF COURSE I WAS BEAUTIFUL.”  
“How long did this go on for?” John felt his anger building. How dare that monster take advantage of a lonely, bullied little boy desperate for affection?  
“FOR A FEW MONTHS. ONE DAY I WAS LATE SO MUMMY SENT MYCROFT TO BRING ME HOME.”  
“That must have gone down well.”  
“HE TOLD MY TUTOR THAT HE WOULD CALL THE POLICE. MR. JACKSON BEGGED HIM NOT TO. HE SAID HE HAD NEVER HURT ME, NEVER TAKEN ADVANTAGE.”  
“Of course, he did.”  
“MY ASKED ME AND I TOLD HIM HE HAD ONLY HUGGED AND KISSED ME. I DID NOT UNDERSTAND. MY LOOKED DISGUSTED AND TOLD ME TO GET DRESSED. HE TOLD MR. JACKSON IT WOULD BE UP TO MUMMY AND DADDY WHETHER THE POLICE WERE CALLED. ALL THE WAY HOME, HE KEPT TELLING ME HOW STUPID I WAS, HOW NAÏVE AND GULLIBLE. I WANTED TO CRAWL INTO A HOLE BUT MY HAD A TIGHT GRIP ON MY HAND. WE WERE PRACTICALLY RUNNING HOME. MY TOLD MUMMY AND DADDY AS SOON AS HE WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR. THEY WERE SO UPSET. MUMMY KEPT HUGGING ME AND WOULD NOT STOP CRYING. DADDY KEPT ASKING ME IF HE HAD TOUCHED ME. I TOLD THEM OVER AND OVER HE HAD ONLY HUGGED AND KISSED ME. AND THAT HE WATCHED ME PLAY.”  
“What did they do?”  
“CALLED THE POLICE. THEY QUESTIONED ME AND ARRESTED HIM AFTER THEY FOUND RECORDING EQUIPMENT AND TAPES.”  
“Oh God,” John whispered.  
“HE KEPT THEM FOR HIMSELF. HE DID NOT GIVE THEM TO ANYONE. HE WENT TO JAIL. HE IS STILL THERE AS FAR AS I KNOW. I THINK MY HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT.”  
“Good for him.”  
“I DID NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT HAPPENED UNTIL I WAS A BIT OLDER. BUT I LEARNED NOT TO TRUST PEOPLE WHO SAID THEY CARED ABOUT ME. I KNEW THEY WANTED TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME OR USE ME. UNTIL YOU.”  
“Why haven’t you told me this before?”  
“I WAS ASHAMED FOR BEING SO STUPID.”  
“You weren’t stupid. You were a lonely boy who liked the attention he gave you. You wanted the praise. It wasn’t your fault. I wish I could have known you then.”  
“MY TOLD ME WHEN I WAS OLDER WHAT HE MIGHT HAVE DONE TO ME. I WAS AFRAID FOR SO LONG ABOUT SEX. THAT’S WHY HE WAS TEASING ME AT THE PALACE ABOUT SEX ALARMING ME. BUT WHEN I REALIZED I LOVED YOU, I KNEW THAT YOU WOULD NEVER HURT ME. I KNEW THAT AS SURE AS I KNEW I LOVED YOU.”  
“Oh, love.”  
“I LOVE YOU, JOHN. I WANT YOU. I NEED YOU BUT I WANT YOU TO BE HAPPY MORE THAN ANYTHING.”  
“I love you. I want you to be happy.”  
“IT IS HARDER FOR ME. YOU HAVE ROSIE AND THE BABY. I HAVE TO DEPEND ON SO MANY PEOPLE. YOU HAVE FREEDOM. I WANT YOU TO GET OUT AND HAVE FUN. GET AWAY FROM ME FOR AWHILE. HAVE A BEER WITH LESTRADE.”  
“I will, if you want.”  
“OF COURSE, I DO. I WANT YOU TO GO OUT AND HAVE FUN. GO TO A FOOTBALL MATCH. DO THE THINGS I CAN’T DO. JUST BECAUSE I CAN’T DO THEM DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN’T HAVE A HAPPY LIFE.”  
“I don’t want you locking yourself away. You’re the man I love and I want to go places and do things with you. Today was hard, but it’ll get better. We’re a family now. And I’m proud of you. I’m proud of being the man you love. I’m proud of how far you’ve come.”  
“I AM BASICALLY BEDRIDDEN. I CAN’T TALK RIGHT. I WEAR NAPPIES AND I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME DO EVERYTHING. I NEED A SPEECH THERAPIST AND A PSYCHIATRIST EVERY DAY.”  
“You’ll be alright. You’re here with me. You wanted to go away. Over time you won’t need the speech therapist, and you’ll need the psychiatrist less.”  
“BUT I WILL STILL BE TAKING MEDICATION. I WANT IT TO GO AWAY, JOHN. I KNOW IT CANNOT BUT I WISH I COULD.”  
“I wish it could too.”  
“WISHES ARE JUST STUPID, I KNOW. THEY NEVER COME TRUE. JUST LIKE DREAMS AND HOPES.”  
“It’s okay to have wishes, dreams, and hopes. You hoped I would love you and I do, so it worked, right?”  
“YES. BUT IT IS THE ONLY TIME. GRANTED IT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT HOPE I HAVE EVER HAD. THE ONE THAT MEANS THE MOST TO ME.”  
John smiled and kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “And I’m glad that it came true. It’s my dream too. And they both came true. I’m yours and you’re mine. That’s all that matters.”  
Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder. “I LOVE YOU.”  
“I love you, always.”  
They sat there for a long time, just revelling in each other’s company.   
John got up when he heard the lift engage. Mrs. Hudson was coming out of the lift when he got there. Mrs. Hudson handed John the milk.  
“Mrs. Hudson,” John said. “Could you maybe talk to Sherlock? He’s had a pretty rough day.”  
“Sure.”  
“HI MRS. HUDSON.”  
“Sherlock. John told me you had a rough day.”  
Sherlock glanced up at John before he turned to her. He explained what had happened at the zoo as John went to make some more tea.  
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”  
“THE WOMAN SAID I SCARED HER DAUGHTER. I DO NOT DESERVE TO GO OUT IF I SCARE CHILDREN.”  
“You don’t scare Rosie.”  
“DIFFERENT. SHE LOVES ME. SHE KNOWS ME. MY FACIAL SCARS AND MY HANDS SCARE THEM. I WANT TO BE WHOLE AGAIN AND TODAY WAS JUST ANOTHER REMINDER THAT I NEVER WILL BE.”  
“Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t let this discourage you. There’s always going to be terrible people out there. I believe you worked with some at the Met.”  
Sherlock smiled. “YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT THAT.”  
“Please remember that. You’re entitled to go out in public as much as anyone else.”  
“I SHOULD GET THAT FACIAL SURGERY.”  
“Only if you want to.”  
“I WANT TO LOOK NORMAL FOR JOHN. AND MY BACK AND CHEST. MAYBE MY LEGS. I WANT TO BE WHOLE FOR JOHN.”  
“It shouldn’t just be for John. It should be because you want it.”  
“I DO.”  
Rosie’s kitten came into the room and jumped into Sherlock’s lap. He reached down to pat her. She purred and purred, rubbing her face against his hand.  
“You certainly don’t frighten a kitten. I think that woman was absolutely full of it.”  
Sherlock laughed.  
John brought in tea for Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock had an idea for helping him drink on his own.” John picked up the sippy cup and took it out to rinse it out and fill it. He returned with his own cup and Sherlock’s and helped him take hold of it.  
“I KNOW IT’S FOR A BABY BUT IT WORKS.” Sherlock demonstrated by taking a sip.  
They sat and talked until Rosie came home. She came bouncing into the room and into her Papa’s arms. He gave her a big hug and kiss.  
“Hello, sweetie,” he said.  
“Hi Papa. Hi Sherlock. Hi Mrs. Hudson. Uncle Sherlock, you’ve got a new cup. I had one when I was little. Hello Aurora.” She gathered her kitten into her arms.  
“Good day at school?”  
“Great. We had chicken nuggets for lunch. It was brilliant. Oh and I got 96 on my spelling test.”  
“V . . . v . . . ver . . . y . . . g . . . g . . . good,” Sherlock said, smiling.  
“There’s a boy in my class who talks like you. I told him not to worry that my Papa’s boyfriend talks like him and is brilliant.”  
Sherlock smiled sadly. “Y . . . y . . . you . . . re . . . n . . . n . . . nice . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . h . . . him?”  
“Yes. He’s really nice. He gets bullied by some of the other kids. I stick up for him. Bullies make me so mad.” She sniffed in such a perfect imitation of John’s beyond-pissed-off sniff that Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson broke into laughter.  
“What?” Rosie asked.  
“Y . . . y . . . you . . . s . . . s . . . sound . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . y . . . y . . . your . . . Pa . . . pa . . . wh . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . sn . . . sn . . . sniff . . . ed. B . . . b . . . bullies . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . an . . . gry . . . t . . . too.”  
Rosie hugged Sherlock and reached up to kiss his cheek.  
“I should be going and get my shopping put away,” Mrs. Hudson said. She reached over and kissed Rosie on the cheek.  
After she left, John put Sherlock in his wheelchair and all three of them went into the kitchen. John got Rosie her biscuits and a glass of milk.  
Sherlock watched her do her homework and helped her with a few of her maths problems.  
“M . . . m . . . my . . . br . . . br . . . broth . . . er . . . is . . . c . . . c . . . coming . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . d . . . din . . . ner.”  
“Really? That’s good. Is that why you’re making roast, Papa?”  
“I found a lovely one and thought that and vegetables would be good. I’ve got some lovely potatoes, green beans, and broccoli.”  
“Papa . . . I don’t like green beans.”  
“I know but there’s lovely chocolate cake for dessert.”  
“Yay!” both Rosie and Sherlock said.  
John laughed. “But you both have to eat your green beans.”  
Rosie and Sherlock looked at each other and frowned.  
John laughed again. John made the rest of dinner as Sherlock and Rosie watched cartoons with Aurora laying across Rosie’s lap.  
When Mycroft came, all three were sitting cozy on the sofa.  
“Hello, Mycroft,” John said as he stood up.  
Rosie smiled and said, “Hello Uncle Mycroft.”  
“B . . . b . . . br . . . oth . . .er . . . m . . . m . . . mine.”  
“Hello all. Don’t you all look . . . domestic.”  
“Is that a good or a bad thing?” John asked.  
“Good for a happy family, I suppose. I’ve brought something for you, Rosie.”  
Rosie stood up, excitedly and went over to Mycroft. He handed her a bag containing two Disney princess colouring books and some crayons.   
“Thank you, Uncle Mycroft. I don’t have either of these colouring books.”  
“Well, truth be told, they aren’t available to the general public yet.”  
“Thanks very much,” Rosie said as she reached up for him.  
Mycroft at first looked a bit puzzled before he got down on one knee. Rosie threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Mycroft awkwardly patted her back and smiled. “You’re most welcome.”  
Sherlock chuckled, loving every bit of watching his staid, serious brother dealing with a child. Perhaps he would have made a better father than a big brother. He had once told John that Mycroft had been a rubbish big brother. And he had been after he’d gone to boarding school. But he had been a good brother before that. He’d played with Sherlock, taught him things, protected him. When he’d left for school, he came back full of himself because he was the smartest one there. He’d begun to think of everyone, especially his younger brothers, as beneath him. He’d cultivated connections he could use for the future rather than friends and was mapping out his own route to power while staying in the background. He refused to play with Sherlock, no longer defended him, and ignored him. Sherlock felt abandoned — the one person he could count on was gone from his life. His parents had tried, but they were busy with each other, Mycroft, and Ford. He’d always felt like he didn’t belong, like he was a disappointment. He couldn’t help that he found school boring, that his endless curiosity seemed to do nothing but get him in trouble, that he was completely friendless. Mycroft had colleagues, not friends. People respected him, even as a teenager. But Sherlock was, and always would be, the freak.  
Sometimes he’d envied Mycroft’s carefully controlled emotions and wished he could do the same. But he knew it was a façade. He’d followed Mycroft to the cemetery a few weeks after his fiancée and unborn child’s deaths. He’d found Mycroft sitting on the ground, with his head leaning against the cold headstone, weeping.  
Sherlock had never seen his brother cry before, and it shocked him. He watched as Mycroft took a small silver rattle out of his pocket and buried it in the dirt in front of the headstone. He walked up quietly to his brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. He got down on his knees and found himself with his arms full of Mycroft as he sobbed on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“It’s alright, Brother Mine,” he’d whispered. “Let it out. You don’t have to be strong for me.”  
They’d stayed there in each other’s arms for over an hour. Mycroft had stopped sobbing but didn’t leave Sherlock’s warmth.  
“I miss her,” he whispered. “I loved her so much, and I was so looking forward to being a father.”  
“I know you were. You were lucky to have them in your life.”  
Mycroft looked up at Sherlock and seemed to be deep in thought. “You’re right. What’s that trite saying, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost’? I just wish I hadn’t had to lose. I’m lucky that I had them, even for just a little while.”  
“You might have it again, one day.”  
“No. Once you’ve had perfection, you don’t settle for less. I will wait. I don’t believe in religion, but it would be lovely to think I might see them again some day.”  
“I’ve never known you to be so . . . sentimental.”  
“Love does that to you. Oh, Sherlock. I hope you find it someday.”  
Sherlock had found it. And he was finally in love and loved. He wished Mycroft could have that for himself, but he’d cut himself off from feelings. He’d never shown the least interest romantically in anyone as far as Sherlock could tell. He had never taken off the wedding ring he’d put on after his fiancée’s death. A painting he’d commissioned of himself, his fiancée, and their son was, despite all of the art and antiques he had collected over the years, his most prized possession. It hung on the wall of Mycroft’s bedroom and no one but close family and his maids had seen it. Sherlock hadn’t seen it in years.  
It was Sherlock’s theory that Mycroft started to look out for him after the tragedy. Sherlock knew that Mycroft loved him. He would rarely admit it, but Mycroft did have deep feelings. If he could just stop acting so superior.  
“Why don’t you go and colour with Aurora in the bedroom?” John said.  
Rosie skipped off with Aurora under her arm.  
“I take it you wanted to talk?” Mycroft asked as he sat in Sherlock’s chair.  
John stood up and went to make tea. “A bit. Did you get what I asked you to get?”  
“Yes, I did. Though I don’t think right now is the time.”  
“No, it isn’t. But thank you, Mycroft.”  
Sherlock looked from one to the other in confusion. “Wh . . . wh . . . what?”  
“Just something I wanted to see for myself.”  
“Th . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . t . . . tape . . . fr . . . fr . . . om . . . th . . . th . . . this . . . m . . . m . . . morning.”  
John looked up. He should have known that he couldn’t fool Sherlock. “I’m sorry, love. I just need to see for myself.”  
“Wh . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . you . . . d . . . d . . . done . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . her, M . . . M . . . My?”  
“Her tax returns were quite interesting. She’s got a lot of explaining to do.”  
John smiled. He brought tea into Mycroft and helped Sherlock take hold of his cup.  
“What’s this?” Mycroft said.  
“M . . . my . . . s . . . s . . . sippy . . . c . . . c . . . cup. I . . . i . . . in . . .de . . .pen . . . dence.”  
“I can see that.”  
“We were going to ask you about that. Sherlock was thinking he might be able to get some sort of spoon made to fit over his hand to help him eat.”  
“Hmmm. Good idea. I’ll have someone come over and take measurements. Oh, I’ve also had an update on your service dog. There’s a young dog that’s being prepared for you, specializing in PTSD and epilepsy so he can help you with both. The trainer will be bringing him by in a few days to start to get him accustomed to you and to two hundred and twenty-one B. He’s also been trained to live with children. I’m sure that Rosie will be quite pleased. And don’t worry. It will be part of the nurse’s job to walk him.”  
Sherlock pulled his laptop into his lap. “THANK YOU MY. I HOPE YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO PULL TOO MANY STRINGS.”  
“A few.”  
“I WANT TO GET MY PLASTIC SURGERY SOON. I WANT TO TALK TO THE DOCTOR AT MY NEXT APPOINTMENT.”   
“Because of today?” John asked.  
“NOT JUST THAT. MY FACE, MY BACK, MY CHEST. MAYBE MY LEGS. I WANT TO COVER THE SCARS.”  
“I can certainly get the best plastic surgeon in the world to help you. You’ll need a skin graft on your back, maybe your chest. I don’t want you putting yourself through more pain because you think other’s want it,” Mycroft said, glancing at John.  
“I WANT TO BE AS NORMAL AS I CAN BE.”  
“You never used to care about normal before,” Mycroft said.   
“BEFORE I WAS SPECIAL. NOW I’M FAR BELOW NORMAL. I WANT TO BE AS CLOSE TO NORMAL AS I CAN BE.”  
John and Mycroft looked at each other. “You aren’t below normal, Sherlock,” John said.  
“YES. WANT TO AT LEAST TRY TO PASS AS NORMAL EVEN IF I’M NOT.”  
“You have brain damage, Little Brother, but you’re not mentally challenged.”  
“I KNOW THAT. I’M NOT SAYING I AM. I JUST AM SAYING I’M DIFFERENT. AND I DON’T LIKE IT. MY MIND IS SO SLOW AND IT TAKES FOREVER TO SPEAK. PEOPLE SEE THE WHEELCHAIR AND HEAR ME SPEAK AND THAT’S WHAT THEY THINK. I SEE LOOKS OF PITY AND I HATE IT. AND WHEN THEY REALIZE JOHN IS MY PARTNER, THEY LOOK AT HIM WITH PITY TOO. I HATE THAT.”  
“I hate it too,” John said. “But putting yourself through more pain? More time in the hospital?”  
“SHOULDN’T BE THAT LONG.”  
“Skin grafts are tricky. There’s such a risk of infection and rejection.”  
“I WANT MY FACE AND CHEST DONE FIRST. THEY’RE THE WORST REMINDERS.”  
John hadn’t thought of it that way. Sherlock hadn’t voluntarily looked in a mirror since he’d woken in the hospital. At one point, John had found Sherlock crying. He’d told John it wasn’t because of his vanity that he wouldn’t look in the mirror. “If I don’t look, John. If I don’t ever see it, then I can pretend it’s not that bad. I can pretend they’re only scratches.” And he knew the scars on Sherlock’s chest hurt him far more than he’d ever say, the visual reminder of his rapes. The nappy was another, but John hoped that it'd be gone soon.  
John sat down beside Sherlock and put his arm around him. “If it would make you feel better than you should have the surgery. But you’ve just gotten out of the hospital.”  
“WE’LL SEE WHAT THE DOCTOR SAYS.”  
“That’s not for awhile yet.”  
The three talked for awhile until dinner was ready. John set the table and poured wine for himself and Mycroft. He sat between Sherlock and Rosie, helping each to eat while eating himself.  
“I . . . is . . . r . . . r . . . really . . . g . . . g . . . good.”  
“Thanks, love.”  
“It’s very good. Thank you for inviting me.”  
The evening was quite pleasant. Mycroft, Sherlock, and John talked about cases and childhood.  
John gave Rosie her bath and put her to bed. When he came back, Sherlock was yawning.  
“John, this has been a wonderful evening. Thank you for it,” Mycroft said as he stood up.  
John shook his hand. “You’re more than welcome. We’ll have to do this more often.”  
“It was a lovely evening, Sherlock. You’ve had a difficult day, and I know you’re tired. But you seem happy here with John.”  
“I . . . a . . . a . . . am. Th . . .th . . . ank . . . you . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . c . . . c . . . coming.”  
Mycroft bent down and actually hugged Sherlock. “You need to eat more, Brother Mine.”  
Sherlock smiled at him. “I . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . you . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . ea . . . t . . . m . . . more . . . t . . . too.”  
Mycroft smiled back. “I’ll see you later. Let me know if you need anything.”  
“Th . . . th . . . ank . . . you . . . M . . .M . . . My.”  
“I’ll walk you out,” John said.  
When the doors of the lift opened downstairs, John was surprised to see Mycroft wipe tears from his face.  
“I would give my life to have him well again. I think it’s time to visit those men again and chastise them. I’ll make arrangements for Dr. Elliott, the plastic surgeon, to talk to him. I want his mind at rest. At least as much as it can be.”  
“Do you really think this Elliott can repair his face?”  
“He’s done miracles before.” Mycroft reached into his pocket and took out a flash drive. “Here’s the footage from this afternoon. Don’t let him see it. I actually threw a teacup across the room when I saw it. I suggest you have nothing breakable around when you watch it. My brother has had to deal with abuse all of his life, he shouldn’t have to deal with any more.”  
“It makes me so angry. If I could stop every one of them, I would.”  
“I admit, I’ve given him a hard time over the years, and I feel bad about it. I should never have ignored him as a child. He was so alone, but I just saw him as an annoying and clinging little brother. And when he turned to drugs, I felt at least partly responsible. That’s why I’ve been watching over him, why I tried to hire you to report to me. You’ve been the best thing to ever happen to him. He loves you. And he feels loved. I so wanted that for him for so long. He’s happy with you.”  
“He’s so afraid that I’ll leave. He’s convinced himself that he’s not good enough.”  
“It’s his self esteem. That’s never been strong. He can’t believe that anyone cares about him.”  
“He said that he feels at home here more than he’s ever felt at home.”  
“Because you’re here. If you need anything, let me know.”  
“I will. Thanks for coming. Good night.”  
“Good night, John.”  
John went back upstairs and found Sherlock nodding off. “Love, you need to get to bed. Can you wait a few minutes while I wash the dishes?”  
“S . . . s . . . sure.”  
John hurried and put away the leftovers and did the dishes. He helped Sherlock get ready for bed and laid down beside him, pulling him into his arms.   
“I love you,” he whispered.  
“I . . . I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Any comments are much appreciated.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John work on getting Sherlock better. But encounters outside 221B change things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so sorry for the long time it's taken me to update this story. Please pay attention to the warning. I've added a new one.

The next morning, John got his daughter off to school before going back into the bedroom. Sherlock was still asleep. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was twitching and moaning low in his throat.  
“Sherlock? Sherlock, love. Wake up.” John began to gently shake Sherlock.  
Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he screamed out.  
“It’s alright. You’re here with me. You’re safe, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, and his hands came up to cover them.  
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” John asked.  
“H . . . h . . . h . . . head . . . h . . . h . . . hurts,” Sherlock whispered as he moaned in pain.   
“Really bad?”  
Sherlock nodded slightly.  
“Sam!” John called.  
“Yes, sir?”  
“Sherlock’s in pain. Bring me his pain meds.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
John injected Sherlock’s pain meds and had Sam pull shut the curtains and shut the door.   
Sherlock continued to moan, tears sliding down his face. He was trembling. John cursed their luck. Dr. Russell had had his last day yesterday as Sherlock had recovered enough in his opinion.  
“Get an ambulance. I think he’s about to seize.”  
Sherlock went slack for a moment. His limbs seemed to contract before they extended. His back arched as he cried out. John started timing it. Fifteen seconds later, his limbs began to shake.  
“Got a tonic-clonic seizure ongoing,” John said into the mobile that Sam handed him.  
“Is he in danger, sir?”  
“I’m a doctor, and I have a nursing assistant here.”  
“Is he still seizing?”  
“Yes. It’s been almost a minute.” John pulled him back from the edge of the bed. It was a tense two minutes later before the seizures began to subside.  
“The seizures are ending,” John said. He reached out. Sherlock’s heartbeat was too fast. “His heart rate is 130 and thready. Breathing at thirty-five. Take his blood pressure,” he said to Sam.  
“It’s 180 over 100.”  
“Is he responsive?” the operator asked.  
“Sherlock . . . can you hear me?”  
Sherlock’s head lolled from side to side. He was confused and didn’t seem to recognize John or where he was.  
“No. He’s confused and doesn’t recognize me.”  
“Are you his doctor, sir?”  
“He’s my partner. He has a lot of health problems.”  
“Do you want an ambulance?”  
“I think he’s calming down. His heartbeat is down. His breathing is calming. Check his blood pressure again.”  
“It’s down to 140 over 75.”  
“I think we can handle it from here. He’s stopped seizing.”  
“If you need am ambulance, let us know.”  
“I will.”  
It was a long fifteen minutes later before Sherlock started to come around.  
“Wh . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . h . . . hap . . . pened?” he whispered, his eye still closed.   
“You had a seizure. It’s okay.”  
“H . . . h . . . h . . . hur . . . ts.”  
“What hurts?”  
“A . . . a . . . all.”  
John knew he couldn’t give Sherlock any more pain meds.  
“Try to rest, love. Sam, could you get him a drink of water and his pills?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
John took Sherlock’s pulse. It was slowing down to normal. “Oh, love.”  
“Hu . . . hur . . . ts. P . . . p . . . please. H . . . h . . . hel . . . p.”  
“I can’t give you any more. Here, take your medication.” He helped Sherlock take his meds and laid him gently on the bed and covered him up. “Try to sleep. It’ll be better when you wake up.”  
“P . . . p . . . p . . . pain . . . h . . . h . . . hur . . . ts. H . . . h . . . h . . . help . . . m . . . me . . . J . . . J . . . John .” Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes.  
“I can’t. I can’t give you anything more,” John said, tears coming to his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”  
Sherlock began to cry and moan as the pain climbed higher and higher. He had almost begun to scream when he passed out.   
John jumped as his mobile rang.  
“What’s wrong?” Mycroft asked.  
“He’s had a seizure. He’s in a lot of pain, but I’d just given him his pain shot before it happened. He’s just passed out from the pain. How did you know?”  
“999 call from there.”  
“Ah.”  
“Is there nothing to be done?”  
“Sleep might help. His muscles will relax, and the pain and stiffness should go away.”  
“Are the anti-epilepsy drugs not working?”  
“Like anything else, they need some time to fully work. I’m no more pleased then you are. He was in a lot of pain, Mycroft. It’s bad enough with what he has to put up with but the spasms only exacerbate the problem. Even your experimental pills have their limits.”  
“Yes. Unfortunately. He’s alright now?”  
“Resting comfortably from what I can tell. I’ll let you know if he needs anything.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
John hung up and smelled something. Sherlock had had an accident. John quickly cleaned him up, knowing how Sherlock hated the idea of John having to clean him. He disposed of the dirty nappy in the nappy holder he and Mary had used for Rosie.   
He got a wet flannel and washed Sherlock’s face before he tucked him in again and kissed his forehead.  
John went out to make himself a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast. He had just sat down next to Sherlock when he heard the lift engage.  
“Woohoo!” he heard.  
“We’re in here, Mrs. Hudson,” John called quietly. He took a bite of toast and chewed quickly.  
“What are you boys up to this morning?” she asked. The smile dropped from her face when she saw John’s serious look.   
“He’s had a seizure. He was in a lot of pain. Passed out from it in fact.”  
“Oh the poor dear,” she said as she sat beside Sherlock. She reached out and pushed the hair back from his forehead. “The poor boy needs to have a break. It’s either something that upsets him or something physical. I just wish he could have a bit of time when he’s not hurting, when he feels better. When things aren’t weighing on him.”  
“Me too.”  
“He’s lucky he’s got you, John.”  
“I feel like the lucky one. After all, he chose me. He’s loved me for all these years. He’s done everything for me, sacrificed. He even died for me. And the thought of losing him — it just makes me sick to even consider it. And you’re right. He needs a break of some sort or other. He hasn’t been able to unwind or do anything fun. He tries so hard. We went to the zoo and he was looking forward to it, but the woman at the front gate went on and on about how he was an invalid and then the woman in the restaurant. He wants to get a bunch of plastic surgery now so he can go out in public. Which means more recovery, more pain.”  
“You won’t let him, will you, John?”  
“If he wants it, I don’t think I can talk him out of it. Mycroft’s hiring the best plastic surgeon in the world for his face, chest, and back. It means skin grafts and the possibility of rejection and infection.”  
“Maybe he’ll stop with his face.”  
“The least he’ll want is his face and chest done. He doesn’t want the reminder every time he looks in the mirror. I can understand. I hate looking at the bullet scar on my shoulder. He hasn’t looked in a mirror since he woke up in the hospital. I can’t really blame him. The marks on his chest are awful. They’re fading a bit, but I can see why he wants them gone. I certainly would if I were him.”  
“But he’s going to have to go back to the hospital. You know how he hates that.”  
“I think yesterday shook him much more than he’s prepared to admit. The fact that someone saw him as an invalid really upset him. And then, piled on top, someone telling him that his face scared her daughter. Sherlock used his looks before on cases, but he was never vain. And it’s not vanity now. I think he wants to do it for me. He’s trying to hard to make himself better for me. And it’s like he says, it’s one step forward and two steps back. If he can just get his speech on the right track. He’s got so many other things on the right track. He’s got so many other things to do. He doesn’t want me to see him as a burden. He’s so afraid of that, so afraid I’ll leave.”  
“You’d never leave him, John. I can see, even before the two of you admitted your feelings, how much he loved you, and how much you loved him.”  
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Convince him of that, will you?”  
“The poor boy is used to being let down or left or made fun of by the people he cares about. It’s only natural he thinks it’s him.”  
“He does. He believes, truly believes, that no one really wants to be around him. And he keeps saying he wants me to be happy — totally convinced that he can’t do it.”  
“Oh, Sherlock,” she said. She stood up. “I brought up some biscuits. Do you want some?”  
“I’d love some. Would you like a cuppa?”  
“I’ll make it, dear. You stay here with Sherlock.”  
The two chatted away for hours before Sherlock started to stir.  
John smiled at him as he opened his eyes. “Feeling better, love?”  
Sherlock nodded.   
“How’s the pain from 1-10?”  
“A . . . a . . . a . . . bout . . . f . . . f . . . five.”  
“Better than before.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“H . . . h . . . h . . . hi . . . M . . . M . . . Mrs. . . . H . . . H . . . Hud . . . son.”  
“Hello Sherlock, dear. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”  
“Th . . . th . . . though . . . t . . . e . . . e . . . ep . . . il . . . ep . . . sy . . . m . . . meds . . . w . . . w . . . would . . . st . . . st . . . stop . . . th . . . th . . . this.”  
“You’re still adjusting to them. You’ll have to give your body a bit of . . .”  
“T . . . t . . . time,” Sherlock sounded defeated. “E . . . e . . . ever . . . y . . . th . . . th . . . ing . . . i . . . is . . . t . . . t . . . time.”  
“I know you’re frustrated, but this could be the last one. Your service dog will help. He’ll be able to predict the seizures, should there be more.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Want me to ask Brad to bathe you?”  
Sherlock nodded again.   
John called for Brad, who proceeded to take Sherlock into the loo for his bath.  
John and Mrs. Hudson went out to the kitchen for tea and biscuits. When Brad rolled Sherlock out to join them half an hour later, the heaviness had gone from his eyes and he was looking much brighter.  
“Want some tea and a proper breakfast?” John asked.  
“Pl . . . please.”  
John made him some oatmeal with lots of brown sugar and cream and two pieces of toast piled with loads of strawberry jam.  
“I . . . I’ll . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . f . . . f . . . fat,” Sherlock moaned, though smiling.  
“You need to put on a few kilos. You’re too thin,” John said as he handed Sherlock his cup.  
“Oh, what a good idea,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Now you can drink all on your own.”  
“B . . . be . . . tween . . . th . . . th . . . this . . . a . . . and . . . st . . . st . . . straws.” Sherlock looked proud of himself.  
“We’ve asked Mycroft about getting a spoon made to fit over his hand. He’s sending someone by to take Sherlock’s measurements.”  
“I . . . can . . . t . . . w . . . wait.”  
“That would be just that much more independence for you. That would be fantastic.”  
“M . . . m . . . may . . . b . . . be . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . g . . . get . . . ph . . . phy . . . sical . . . th . . . th . . . ther . . . apy . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . g . . . get . . . a . . . m . . . m . . . mot . . . or . . . ized . . . wh . . . wh . . . wheel . . . ch . . . chair.”  
“Your hands tremble but maybe. I’ll talk to Mycroft about it.”  
“M . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . th . . . ther . . . apy. F . . . f . . . four . . . h . . . hours . . . a . . . d . . . d . . . day.”  
“Physical therapy probably wouldn’t be every day. A couple of times a week maybe and lots of practice, like with your speech.”  
“S . . . she . . . ll . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . h . . . here . . . s . . . soon.”  
John looked at his watch. “You’re right. Best get this into you.” He sat down next to Sherlock and helped him eat his oatmeal. Sherlock put down his cup of tea and determinedly picked up a piece of toast. Though his hands did shake, he managed to take a few bites before he put it down and picked up his tea again.  
“That’s great,” John said. “Good for you, love.”  
Sherlock smiled, as he attempted to lick the jam off the sides of his mouth. John smiled and used a napkin to wipe his face before he fed Sherlock more oatmeal. By the time they were done, Sherlock was covered in jam but happily full and satisfied that he had been able to feed himself.  
John had just managed to clean up Sherlock and the kitchen when Dr. Stewart arrived.   
Mrs. Hudson asked John to come downstairs with her. John spent the next hour talking to her as they watched crap daytime telly and drank tea.  
He returned upstairs after he heard the outside door open and close.  
“Hey, love,” he said as the door to the lift opened and revealed him in the living room. “Want to go down to Mrs. Hudson’s? We’ve been watching telly and gossiping.”  
“N . . . no . . . th . . . th . . . anks. B . . . but . . . you . . . g . . . go . . . i . . . if . . . you . . . w . . . wan . . . t.”  
“That’s okay. I’ll go when Dr. Cooper comes. How are you feeling? Still in pain?”  
Sherlock nodded. “F . . . f . . . four.”   
“It’s down a bit.”  
“F . . . f . . . feels . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . p . . . p . . . pull . . . ed . . . e . . . ev . . . ery . . . m . . . mus . . . cle . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . bo . . . dy.”  
“Do you want to lie down?”  
“O . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . s . . . so . . . fa.”  
John gently lifted him and laid him down, covering his legs and feet with a blanket.  
“Sh . . . sh . . . should . . . I . . . t . . . t . . . turn . . . o . . . over . . . s . . . so you . . . th . . . th . . . ink . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . s . . . sulk . . . ing?” Sherlock asked, smiling.  
“You need your second-best dressing gown for that,” John said fondly as he bent down and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips.  
“I . . . I . . . a . . . ad . . . ore . . . you,” sherlock whispered as his hand found John’s.  
The admission startled John for a moment. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and it was like he was staring right into his heart. Sherlock looked at him with such emotion, such tenderness that John found his own eyes filling with tears.  
“D . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . c . . . cr . . . cry . . . l . . . love,” Sherlock said, the love replaced by worry as he squeezed John’s hand.   
John sat down on the coffee table. “It’s okay. I . . . I was just a bit overwhelmed. I adore you too. Always.” He leaned down and touched his forehead to Sherlock’s. “You and me. Together forever.”  
“F . . . f . . . for . . . e . . . ever,” Sherlock whispered as his hand found the back of John’s head and wound into his hair. He closed the distance between them and kissed him passionately.   
They kissed for what felt like forever. A very good forever. When they came up for air, John smiled at Sherlock’s red, slightly swollen lips. His hair was dishevelled, and he looked slightly debauched.   
“Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now?” John asked.   
“Y . . . y . . . your . . . l . . . lips . . . a . . . a . . . are . . . s . . . sw . . . o . . . llen.”  
“So are yours.”  
“I . . . I . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . kn . . . know . . . l . . . love . . . c . . . could . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”  
John smiled. “You deserve to be loved. You deserve to always be loved.”  
“I . . . I . . . h . . . har . . . dly . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so. I . . . w . . . was . . . n’t . . . a . . . g . . . g . . . good . . . p . . . per . . . son.”  
“Greg told me once that you were a great man. I agree. You just didn’t know how to express yourself. You couldn’t because you were so isolated. You withdrew from people to protect yourself from pain. I would give anything to change that. I wish I could have known you when you were a child.”  
“I . . . sp . . . sp . . . ent . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . t . . . time . . . a . . . alone. H . . . h . . . hiding . . . c . . . cry . . . ing. I . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . ed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . long. M . . . M . . . My . . . t . . . tol . . . d . . . m . . . me I . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . n . . . need . . . a . . . any . . . one.”  
“But you did. Everyone needs someone.”  
“N . . . now . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . I . . . ev . . . er . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . h . . . h . . . hoped . . . f . . . for.”  
“I’m glad you feel loved now.”  
“I . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . n . . . noth . . . ing . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . th . . . than . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . you. Y . . . you . . . re . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . ole . . . w . . . world . . . J . . . John. A . . . and . . . you . . . a . . . al . . . ways . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be.”  
“And this is my world. You and Rosie and our baby and 221B. We want to be your world. We would be so happy to be your family.”  
“You . . . a . . . are . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . fam . . . ily.”  
John smiled. “Do you have any idea how honoured I am to know that you love me?”  
“I . . . it’s . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . s . . . same . . . w . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me.”  
John laid down beside Sherlock and they laid face to face, bodies pressed against each other. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he kissed him again. The two snuggled and talked until Dr. Cooper arrived.   
John put Sherlock in his wheelchair and wheeled him into the bedroom. “I think I’ll go take a walk. I’ll be back when your session’s done.”  
John walked around the neighbourhood, stopping to get a nice steak for dinner. He thought he’d make that and a stir-fry. Sherlock hadn’t had steak since he’d been back on solid food.  
When he got home, he put the steak away and started cutting up the vegetables for the stir-fry. When Dr. Cooper came out, they talked for a moment before he left.   
“Good session today?”  
“A . . . al . . . right . . . I . . . I’m . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . ting . . . t . . . t . . . tired . . . o . . . of . . . the . . . th . . . th . . .er . . . apy.”  
“I can imagine. Three hours a day is a bit overwhelming.”  
“A . . . and . . . ph . . . phys . . . i . . . cal . . . t . . . too.”  
“You want all of it, don’t you?”  
“Y . . . yes. I . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . w . . . wa . . . nt . . . a . . . d . . . day . . . o . . . off. I . . . w . . . want . . . a . . . d . . . day . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . R . . . R . . . osie.”  
“That sounds good. Maybe Saturday. We could go to the park maybe.”  
“I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . kn . . . know.”  
“We’ll just go to the playground. It’ll be fine.”  
“Y . . . you . . . th . . . th . . . ink . . . s . . . so?”  
“Rosie’s wanted everyone to meet you. Her friends, I mean.”  
“I . . . w . . . would . . . s . . . sc . . . scare . . . th . . . th . . . em,” Sherlock said quietly. “L . . . l . . . like . . . a . . . at . . . th . . . the . . . z . . . zoo.”  
“Sherlock, please don’t let one incident ruin life for you.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . i . . . it . . . sh . . . ould . . . n’t . . . b . . .b . . . but . . . it . . . d . . . does.”  
“I know it does, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop her. I’d have given her a piece of my mind.”  
“H . . . have . . . you . . . w . . . wat . . . ched . . . i . . . it . . . y . . . yet?”  
“Not yet. I should, but at the same time, I don’t want to see it.”  
“I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . told . . . h . . . her . . . o . . . off . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . self. W . . . we . . . d . . . st . . . still . . . b . . . be . . . th . . . th . . . there . . . if . . . I . . . I’d . . . tr . . . tr . . . tried,” he joked with a sad grin on his face.  
“You weren’t expecting to be attacked, I can understand that. Especially at a zoo.”   
“I . . . if . . . you . . . w . . . w . . . want . . . ed . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . wat . . . ch . . . it . . . I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . m . . . mind.”  
“I wouldn’t watch it in front of you, love.”  
“G . . . g . . . go . . . in . . . o . . . our . . . b . . . bed . . . r . . . room.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“G . . . go . . . a . . . head.”  
John got up and went into the bedroom, shutting the door. He got out the drive and put it in his computer. He turned it down low so Sherlock couldn’t hear. The exchange didn’t last long, but John found anger creeping into his system. He was outraged when she told Sherlock he belonged in a home. His heart ached when he saw Sherlock begin to cry. He sniffed angrily, as blind rage overtook him. He wanted someone to punish, but there was no one there.  
The fact that that woman had hurt the man he loved made him want vengeance. It was probably a good thing that Mycroft had done it himself. He could imagine Mycroft’s anger once he saw that video. He imagined that woman would have years of troubles coming to her.  
John ejected the drive and dropped it to the floor, crushing it under his heel. He picked up the pieces and took them into the loo and flushed them down the toilet. He washed his hands and took several deep breaths to calm himself. He came out of the loo and saw Sherlock sitting up, staring at him.  
“Y . . . you . . . o . . . kay?”  
“You’re worried about me?”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . an . . . gry.” Sherlock looked down at his hands. “I . . . f . . . f . . . fel . . . t . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . w . . . weak. I . . . h . . . hat . . . ed . . . th . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . st . . . st . . . start . . . ed . . . t . . . to . . . c . . . cry.”  
John came over and sat down beside him, taking his hand. “You couldn’t help it. You can’t control your emotions. You were brave, love. You were so brave. If I could get my hands on her just for a few minutes, I would . . .”  
“I . . . I’m . . . g . . . gl . . . glad . . . you . . . d . . . did . . . n’t. I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . in . . . tr . . . tr . . . ouble . . . b . . . be . . . cause . . . o . . . of . . . m . . . me.”  
“Oh, love.”  
“I . . . I’m . . . n . . . n . . . not . . . w . . .w . . . worth . . . it.”  
“I would die for you, Sherlock. I’d do anything for you.”  
“N . . . n . . . no! Y . . . you . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . here. . . w . . . with . . . you . . . re . . . ch . . . chi . . . child . . . ren.”  
“Sherlock, you’re my family too. You and I. Together forever. Remember that. If someone hurts you, it hurts me too. I just want to make you happy.”  
“I . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . h . . . happy. H . . . h . . . how . . . c . . . c . . . can . . . I . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . you . . . h . . . h . . . happy?”  
“Just be you,” John said. “You’re my life, Sherlock. You and Rosie and the baby and 221B. You’re all I want. All I need.”  
“B . . . but . . . n . . . no . . . c . . . cas . . . es. N . . . n . . . no . . . ch . . . ch . . . chas . . . ing . . . cr . . .im . . . in . . . als.”  
“That was part of our life, but it isn’t anymore. If I’d admitted it to myself, the reason I followed you around London and chased criminals was partly because I wanted to be with you. I wanted to follow you anywhere you went. That’s why I was so devastated when you jumped. I thought you’d gone where I couldn’t follow you. The thought of never seeing you again. I wanted to follow you, love. I slept with your scarf. It smelled so much like you. Even then . . . even then, I couldn’t admit it to myself. I’d lost you. My heart was broken because you were gone. And when Mary came along . . . She knew just what I needed.”  
“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . so . . . rry . . . I . . . p . . . put . . . you . . . thr . . . thr . . . ough . . . a . . . all . . . o . . . of . . . th . . . th . . . that. I . . . c . . . c . . . can . . . ne . . . nev . . . er . . . m . . . make . . . up . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . p . . . pain . . . I . . . c . . . c . . . caused . . . you.”  
“You did it to save me. I’d be dead if you hadn’t. And you suffered too. You were tortured, shot, stabbed. You were alone, frightened. Two years on the run. Not knowing if you would be coming home.”  
Sherlock looked up at John, fat tears running down his face. “N . . . no . . . t . . . kn . . . know . . . ing . . .if . . . I . . . ‘d . . . ev . . . er . . . s . . . see . . . you. Th . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . wor . . . st . . . o . . . of . . . it.” Sherlock began to sob.  
John pulled him into his arms. “But you’re here now. We’re together now. I’m yours and you’re mine. Those two years are over. Those five days are over. That night in the hospital is over. The past is over. There’s just now. We have to live now, Sherlock. You and I.”  
Sherlock’s hands grabbed John’s jumper as he burrowed his face into John’s chest.  
“It won’t be easy. I’m a fine one to talk. You’re the one who always suffers. You’re the one who suffers for me. I can never thank you enough for my life. For all you’ve sacrificed for me. I will forever be yours. I know that can’t be enough, to ever make up for the pain that you suffered, for all that you’ve lost . . .”  
“N . . . n . . . no. Y . . . you . . . re . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . m . . . most . . . im . . . por . . . t . . . tant . . . th . . . th . . . ing . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. I . . . w . . . would . . . s . . . s . . . suff . . . er . . . it . . . a . . . all . . . a . . . gain. A . . . a . . . all . . . o . . . of . . . it.” Sherlock looked up at John and touched his face. “S . . . s . . . suff . . . erring . . . is . . . be . . . being . . . w . . . w . . .with . . . o . . . out . . . you.”  
John felt a tear in his eye. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock gently. “I’ve never felt so loved in my life. It’s such a special gift that you’ve given me. You’ve given me your heart, and it’s so precious to me. I will do whatever I have to do to protect it. I promise. On my life.”  
“I . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . w . . . will. I . . . tr . . . trus . . . t . . . you. D . . . d . . . do . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . you . . . r . . . h . . . h . . . heart?”  
“Always. You’ve had it for so long. I just never realized it. And for that I’m sorry.”   
“D . . . d . . . d . . . on’t . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . sor . . . ry. You . . . kn . . . know . . . n . . . now . . . th . . . th . . . that’s . . . e . . . e . . . enough.”  
They sat together talking and holding each other until the speech therapist returned. Sherlock went in for his session. John finished the vegetables and put them back in the fridge before making himself tea and watching telly. The session lasted longer than normal and Rosie came home.   
The next morning, the therapy dog and his trainer came by. It was a smallish dog, a mix between a poodle and a golden retriever.   
Sherlock seemed to take to the young dog right away. Even Aurora didn’t seem to mind.  
“His name is Gladstone,” the trainer said. “He’s able to tell when you’re going to have a seizure and will lay across your lap to let you know. He’ll also whine. If you have a PTSD episode, he’ll do his best to calm you ─ putting his nose on your hand, crawling on you.”  
“G . . . G . . . Gl . . . ad . . . st . . . one,” Sherlock said. The pup came over to him and sat down beside him.  
“Will he be ready soon?”  
“A few more weeks. He’s been in training since he was a few months old, but he’s not quite ready yet. I’d like him to get acclimatized to your flat. Can I leave him here for an hour or so today?”  
“Sure.”  
Dr. Cooper came for their session soon after the trainer left. Gladstone didn’t seem to care for him much. Gladstone sat beside Sherlock on the bed, and Sherlock would run his fingers through his curly coat every once and awhile. It reminded him how much he missed having a dog in his life.  
“I HAD A DOG WHEN I WAS A BOY. AN IRISH SETTER NAMED REDBEARD. WE WERE BEST FRIENDS FOR SO LONG. IT BROKE MY HEART WHEN HE DIED.”  
“A lot of people feel very close to their pets.”  
“HE WAS MY ONLY FRIEND. I DID NOT HAVE ANY OTHERS.”  
They talked about his childhood for the rest of the session.   
When John came to get him, Gladstone jumped off the bed and came too, sitting down beside Sherlock.  
“We’ll have to get some dog dishes and food in.”  
“A . . . and . . . tr . . . tr . . . eats. M . . . m . . . may . . . be . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . t . . . toys.”  
“Yeah, those too.”  
“G . . . G . . . Gl . . . ad . . . st . . . one . . . d . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . s . . . seem . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . like . . . D . . . Doc . . . tor . . . C . . . C . . . Cooper . . . v . . . very . . . m . . . much.”  
“Maybe he’s a cat person.”  
“M . . . m . . . may . . . b . . . be.”  
“What’s wrong?”  
“N . . . n . . . noth . . . ing. I . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . s . . . s . . . seem . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . m . . . mak . . . ing . . . m . . . m . . . much . . . p . . . pro . . . gress . . . w . . . with . . . h . . . him.”  
“I think you’ve made a lot of progress. You’re just impatient. You have a lot to work through.”  
“I . . . d . . . do . . . f . . . f . . . feel . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . b . . . be . . . better . . . a . . . af . . . ter . . . I . . . acc . . . ept . . . ed . . . w . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . ha . . . hap . . . pen . . . ed . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me. B . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . st . . . st . . . ill . . . f . . . f . . . feel . . . use . . . l . . . ess.”  
“You aren’t useless. You’ll never be useless.”  
“I . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . h . . . h . . . help . . . h . . . how . . . I . . . f . . . f . . . feel.”  
John watched Sherlock unconsciously reaching for the dog’s head as he patted him. He was visibly calming. Having a dog was already helping.  
“I know you can’t help it. That’s why you need to talk to him.”  
“T . . . t . . . ti . . . red . . o . . . of . . . t . . . t . . . talk . . . ing. H . . . he . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . get . . . wh . . . wha . . . t . . . th . . . th . . . ey . . . d . . . d . . . did.”  
John sat down beside him. “Oh, love. You’ll never forget it, but he can help you to not dwell on them, to make them not be in your mind all the time, help you cope with the memories.”  
“I . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . it . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . b . . . be . . . d . . . d . . . done. O . . . o . . . ov . . . er . . . a . . . a . . . and . . . d . . . d . . . done. I . . .w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . l . . . life . . . b . . . b . . . back.”  
“I know you do.”  
“I . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . th . . . th . . .ther . . . apy . . . a . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more. I . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . wa. . . wait . . . a . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more. I . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . bet . . . ter . . . n . . . now.” Gladstone pushed his head onto Sherlock’s lap.  
Sherlock looked down at the dog as he sniffled, trying hard not to cry.  
“I wish I could give that to you. I wish I could give you peace now. But I can’t. You’re tired of being patient. I can understand. I was so tired of waking up from nightmares but being here with you helped make them go away. If you let me help you, let me be with you, maybe I can help you too.”  
Sherlock looked down into Gladstone’s eyes and tangled his fingers in his fur, stroking him slowly. “I . . . if . . . th . . . this . . . h . . . had . . . n’t . . . h . . . h . . . hap . . . pened . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . t . . . to . . . geth . . . er.”  
“But the cost was too much. You’ve lost so much.”  
Sherlock looked up at John. “B . . . but . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . you . . . n . . . now. Th . . . th . . . that’s . . . w . . . worth . . . a . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing.”  
“If I hadn’t been so blind and stubborn and so stupid . . . we would have had years together, and you’d never have gone through this.”  
“I . . . n . . . nev . . . er . . . sa . . . said . . . a . . . any . . .th . . . th . . . ing . . . e . . . e . . . either.”  
“But at least you acknowledged your feelings. I broke your heart when I got married . . . to a woman I didn’t really love. I don’t know why I went through with it. I was so stubborn. When you came back, I should have left her.”  
“You . . . w . . . wer . . .a . . . an . . . gry . . . J . . . John. I . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . b . . . bl . . . ame . . . you.”  
“You never would, would you? You stood there, beside me, listening to me say my vows and it must have hurt, really hurt. But you went along with it because you thought I was happy.”  
“Th . . . th . . . that’s . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . that . . . m . . . m . . . mat . . . ters . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me. I . . . w . . . want . . . ed . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . l . . .l . . . love . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . ted . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . hap . . . py.”  
“And now I am. Because I’m with you.”  
“G . . . g . . . good.”  
The trainer came back to get Gladstone. John asked what kind of food to buy. The trainer said he’d bring Gladstone back the next week.  
John made sure to check with the speech therapist and Dr. Cooper about the day off. They agreed, although Dr. Cooper seemed a bit reticent.   
The Saturday morning dawned beautiful. After breakfast, they got ready and went to the park.  
John and Sherlock sat hand in hand on a blanket on the ground as they watched Rosie play with the other children. They talked and John had brought a book to read to Sherlock. Sherlock laid down and stared at the sky, reaching out to pull John down beside him. Rosie came running over and laid down beside John.  
The three of them looked at the clouds and said what they imagined them to look like.  
“I see a pony,” Rosie called.  
“I see a tree,” John answered. “What do you see, Sherlock?”  
“A . . . m . . . map . . . o . . . of . . . H . . . Hun . . . g . . . ary.”  
“Really?”  
“M . . . m . . . may . . . be . . . T . . . T . . . Tibet.”  
“Is anyone hungry?”  
“I am,” Rosie said. “Let’s go to McDonalds.”  
Sherlock looked a bit doubtful.   
“What do you think, Sherlock?”  
“Please, Uncle Sherlock?” Rosie asked.  
“O . . . o . . . kay.”  
John gathered up their things and put Sherlock in his wheelchair. Rosie sat on Sherlock’s lap as John pushed the wheelchair.  
Sherlock kept his head down. He could feel the butterflies whirling in his stomach. He was so afraid. At the first set of lights, they stopped and waited.  
“Mr. Holmes? Is that you?” he heard a voice ask. He cringed but felt John’s warm hand on his shoulder.  
He looked up. It was Mr. Walters, who ran the corner shop. Sherlock had been in there a lot buying papers, cigarettes, and the occasional bit of chocolate to satisfy his sweet tooth.  
“H . . . h . . . hel . . . lo . . . M . . . M . . . Mr. . . . W . . . Wal . . . t . . . ters.” Sherlock could see the look of pity on the other man’s face. His eyes left Sherlock’s and went to John’s.  
“He was hurt in an accident?”  
Sherlock’s face burned with embarrassment. Obviously, Mr. Walters thought he was too brain damaged to talk to so he was ignoring him.   
“No. Some bad guys did this to him,” Rosie spoke up. “They hurt him real bad. Sometimes he screams at night. Papa’s the only one who can . . .”  
“That’s enough, Rosie,” John said.  
Mr. Walters looked shocked.  
Sherlock wished he’d never left the flat. Wished he could sink through the sidewalk. Anything to escape.   
“How’s he doing? Will he get any better?”  
“You can ask him.”  
“I . . . c . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . w . . . walk . . . an . . . d . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . use . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . h . . . hands. A . . . as . . . you . . . c . . . c . . .can . . . h . . . h . . . hear . . . I . . . h . . . h . . . had . . . br . . . br . . . ain . . . d . . . d . . . dam . . . age. I . . . w . . . w . . . won . . . t . . . b . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . d . . . det . . . ec . . . tive . . . a . . . gain.”  
Mr. Walters stared at him, his mouth open. He bent over and patted Sherlock’s arm. “It’ll be okay,” he said, slowly, loudly, and overemphasizing each word. “Come by some time, chocolate’s on me. It was good to see you.” He stood up and smiled at John. “Bring him in. I’ll made sure to have a treat for him. And for your daughter too.” He nodded his head and headed across the street.   
Sherlock didn’t look up as they started across the street.   
“Uncle Sherlock, why are you crying?” he heard Rosie ask.  
He heard John gasp. He pushed them to the nearest bench and sat down. “Sherlock,” John said as he put his hand on Sherlock’s. “It’s okay.”  
Sherlock wouldn’t look up and John felt a tear hit the back of his hand.  
“It’s alright. He’s just an idiot.”  
“Really, Papa?”  
“It’s okay.”  
“P . . . p . . . please . . . t . . .t . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . home,” Sherlock whispered. “You . . . g . . . go . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . R . . . Rosie . . . t . . . to . . . M . . . Mc . . . D . . . D . . . Don . . . alds.”  
“I think it would be best if you came with us, okay? It’s not much further. Please.”  
Sherlock glanced up at John and the pain in his eyes was enough to make John gasp. Sherlock’s eyes fell to his lap again.  
“We won’t be long, okay?” John stood up and pushed the wheelchair. He was beginning to doubt his plan to get Sherlock out of the flat. But if he took him back now, he might never get him out again.  
Sherlock huddled, miserable, in the chair until they reached McDonalds. Rosie jumped off as they entered the restaurant and ran to play in the ball pit.   
John wheeled Sherlock to a table and asked him what he wanted.  
“N . . . n . . . noth . . . ing,” he whispered.  
“You have to eat, love. I’ll get you at least some fries, okay? You sure you don’t want a hamburger? How about some McNuggets?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John went to get in line.  
The lights and sounds were a bit too overwhelming for Sherlock. He felt like he was drowning. But he didn’t want to upset John. John had asked him to come out. But he didn’t seem to understand how humiliated Sherlock had been. Mr. Walters had known him for years but had treated him like he wasn’t there, like he was so mentally damaged that he couldn’t be counted on to give an answer. It was exactly what he’d feared.  
John returned a few minutes later with their dinner. He’d brought fries and chicken nuggets and a cup of tea for Sherlock.  
They set out the food and dug in. Sherlock tried not to look around but he could see the furtive glances his way as John fed him. He recognized some of the faces of people from the neighbourhood. He was starting to feel nauseated. But he knew he needed to continue to be strong. John wanted this. He choked down the food as best he could, taking sips of tea.   
“Okay?” John asked.  
Sherlock nodded. He was trying to will everyone else to hurry up so they could leave.  
Rosie ate quite quickly and asked if she could go back to play.  
“Sure, sweetheart.”  
John gathered up the trash and put it in the receptacle so he could sit and watch Rosie play.  
Rosie was talking to a boy who kept looking over at them. After awhile, she came back over, a puzzled look on her face.  
“What’s wrong?” John asked as he sipped the remains of his tea.  
“Nothing. That boy over there asked me a question and I don’t know the answer.”  
“Okay. Try me. I might know,” John said, smiling.  
“He asked who Uncle Sherlock was and I said he was your boyfriend. He saw you feeding him and heard him talk. He wanted to know if Uncle Sherlock was a retard. I said I didn’t know. Are you a retard, Uncle Sherlock?”  
Sherlock felt his heart shatter. There was no stopping the tears that sprang to his eyes. The nausea hit in full force. He bent over the side of his wheelchair and vomited.  
He could hear people moving around him as he heaved until there was nothing left but the taste of stomach acid in his mouth. His head was swimming, and he felt like he was going to pass out.   
He could feel John’s hands on him, taking his pulse and pulling the hair out of his face. He held Sherlock’s face in his hands as one of the workers brought a mop and pail to clean up the mess he’d made.  
“Are you okay?”  
Sherlock could see John’s lips moving, but he couldn’t understand what he was saying.  
John winced at the utter despair on Sherlock’s face.  
Rosie was sitting in her seat, softly crying. She knew that she’d made Sherlock sick, though she didn’t understand how.  
The boy was pointing at them and laughing as his parents hurried out. “Guess he really is a retard,” he said, loudly.  
John felt rage turn his vision red. He took a sniff and stood up. “Listen, you little . . .” he started.  
“Are you talking to my kid?” the boy’s father asked.  
“He upset my daughter and my boyfriend. Maybe if he wasn’t taught derogatory words . . .”  
“That’s your boyfriend? Should keep guys like him in hospitals and institutions. Shouldn’t make the rest of us be subjected to them. Geez, buddy, even you could do better than that.” He sneered at Sherlock in disgust.  
John took a step forward, his hand curled into a fist.  
“Papa, Uncle Sherlock needs you.”  
John looked down at Sherlock, who was trembling and sobbing.  
The man, his embarrassed wife, and their son left, the two males laughing.   
“Sherlock. It’s alright. They don’t know any better. They don’t know you. Please try and calm down.”  
“Is he okay?” one of the young women from behind the counter asked. “Do you need some help? Do you want me to call 999 for you?”  
“He’ll be okay,” John said, though he doubted it. He reached out to Sherlock, who flinched away from him. “Sherlock . . .” He reached again and Sherlock pulled his arms tight around his body, shivering and rocking and making a low keening noise in the back of his throat.   
“Oh God,” John whispered. He got out his mobile and dialed it. “Mycroft? I need you to come pick us up. We’re at . . . I should have known you’d have us followed. Please, he’s starting to concern me.”  
A black car pulled up as soon as John hung up.   
John turned around and saw Rosie crying. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “It’s okay, pet. It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said as he hugged her.  
“I made Sherlock sick,” she hiccoughed as she cried. “I made him sad. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know what that word meant. It’s a very mean word. That was a mean boy. Sherlock’s not mad at you.”  
Two of Mycroft’s men entered the restaurant and wheeled Sherlock out to the car. John followed, carrying Rosie. One of the men bent down to lift Sherlock from the wheelchair. Sherlock didn’t react at all and sat still as John buckled him in. He entered too and got Rosie buckled in.  
They were home in a matter of minutes. John lifted Sherlock into his wheelchair and took Rosie’s hand just as Mycroft pulled up.  
“Listen, honey. I promise that no one’s mad at you. I promise. Do you think you could be a very good girl and stay with Mrs. Hudson for a little while?”  
She dried her tears and nodded.  
“That’s Papa’s girl,” he said as he kissed her cheek. He knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson let them in and took Rosie into her flat.  
Mycroft stood stone-faced beside Sherlock. “What the hell have you done to my brother?” he asked, his voice verging on rage.  
“Let’s get him inside.”  
John pushed Sherlock into the lift. He couldn’t blame Mycroft for being angry. It was his fault. He wheeled Sherlock into his room and went to wet a flannel. He wiped Sherlock’s face with the cool cloth.   
He hated the look in Sherlock’s eye. It was like he wasn’t there.  
“If it’s not too much to ask, what happened?”  
“Rosie wanted to go to McDonalds after we went to the park. I thought it couldn’t hurt. We’d had such a lovely day. We ran into the man who runs the corner store. He asked after Sherlock and, when Sherlock spoke to him, he assumed that he was badly brain damaged and stopped talking to him. Then when I told him to talk to Sherlock, he talked to him like he was a small child and couldn’t understand him.  
“Then we went to McDonalds. He didn’t want to go in but he did. Rosie was playing with a boy who asked her something she didn’t understand so she came over to ask.”  
“What did he ask her?”  
“I . . . If . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . re . . . re . . . tard,” Sherlock whispered.  
Mycroft looked horrified. “You aren’t . . . that, Sherlock. He was an ignorant child.”  
“H . . . h . . . his . . . f . . . f . . . fath . . . er . . . s . . . s . . . said . . . I . . . sh . . . should . . . b . . . be . . . in . . . in . . . sti . . . tu . . . tion . . . a . . . and . . . J . . . J . . . John . . . c . . . c . . . could . . . d . . . d . . . do . . . b . . . b . . . bet . . . ter. M . . . may . . . b . . . be . . . I . . . sh . . . sh . . . should . . . b . . . be . . . in . . . in . . . sti . . . tu . . . tion.”   
“Little Brother, please. You know you don’t want that. You know you want to stay here with John. You need to be here with him.”  
“J . . . J . . . John . . . n . . . n . . . needs . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . h . . . happy. I . . . n . . . n . . . need . . . J . . . J . . . John . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . h . . . happy.” Sherlock was crying now, sobs tearing through him. “H . . . h . . . he . . . n . . . n . . . needs . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . w. . . .with . . . R . . . R . . . Rosie . . . a . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . b . . . baby. I’m . . . n . . . n . . . not . . . g . . . g . . . good . . . en . . . en . . . ough . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . h . . . him. P . . . pl . . . please . . . s . . . s . . . send . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . away . . . a . . . and . . . g . . .g . . . go . . . o . . . on . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . y . . . y . . . your . . . l . . . l . . . ife.”  
John’s heart was breaking. “Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Please look at me. Please.”  
Sherlock looked at him.  
“You are my life. It took me so long to realize that. And I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. I will love you until the day I die and even after that. And I would never, ever want to be without you. I need you. I need you. All I need is to have you with me and to know that you’re safe. And if anyone ever tries to call you names again, I’ll beat the ever-living shit out of them. If Rosie hadn’t been there, that guy would be laying unconscious on the floor of McDonalds.”  
“And you’d be in the back of a police car,” Mycroft said.  
John touched Sherlock’s hand. “Please don’t leave me.”  
Sherlock looked into John’s eyes for a long minute then laid his head on John’s shoulder. John gathered him into his arms. He could feel Sherlock trembling.   
“Mycroft, I hate to bother you, but do you think you could make us some tea?”  
“Of course.” Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m here for you, Little Brother. Never forget that.”  
Mycroft heard the lift start. Rosie and Mrs. Hudson came through the door.  
Rosie moved towards Sherlock and John’s bedroom.  
“She wanted to say she was sorry,” Mrs. Hudson said.  
Mycroft nodded. He certainly didn’t blame the little girl. He was seething with anger towards the man and boy who had upset his brother. He’d send Anthea to find out who the man was. There would be retribution.  
John looked up as Rosie paused at the door. “You okay, honey?”  
She nodded. “Is Uncle Sherlock?”  
“Not quite yet.”  
Rosie’s face twisted. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Uncle Sherlock. I didn’t mean to make you sick or sad. I’m so, so sorry.”  
Sherlock looked up at the little girl. “I . . . it’s . . . o . . . o . . . okay . . . R . . . Rosie. You . . . d . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . d . . . do . . . it. You . . . d . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . kn . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . wh . . . what . . . it . . . m . . . meant.”  
“Really?”  
“R . . . r . . . rea . . . lly.”  
“Can I sit with you?”  
“S . . . s . . . sure.”  
The little girl climbed up beside Sherlock and John. John gathered her onto his knee and hugged Sherlock. Sherlock leaned forward and kissed Rosie’s forehead. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sor . . . ry . . . if . . . I . . . sc . . . sc . . . ared . . . you.”  
“That boy was mean. Don’t worry, Sherlock. If I see him again, I’ll punch him in the nose.”  
“S . . . sh . . . she’s . . . y . . . your . . . d . . . d . . . daugh . . . ter . . . a . . . al . . . right,” Sherlock said.  
“Violence isn’t the answer,” John said.  
“But he hurt Sherlock.”   
“I know but his father taught him that.”  
“And I have a feeling that his father will be regretting it,” Mycroft said as he brought in cups of tea.  
Sherlock smiled, somehow pleased to know that the full wrath of the British government was to be brought to bear on that small-minded idiot.  
“Do you think you’ll be okay? Do you need anything?”  
Sherlock thought. He felt incredibly fragile at the moment. Tired in body, heart, and soul. He was hungry, but his stomach was feeling very tender. Maybe some dry toast.  
“W . . . w . . . would . . . you . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . d . . . dr . . . dry . . . t . . . t . . . toast?”  
“Surely.”  
When Sherlock had choked down the toast, and was quite sure it was going to stay where it was, he looked at John. “I . . . I’m . . . t . . . t . . . tired.”  
“Nap?”  
Sherlock nodded. He felt like he could sleep for days and days. And a tiny part of him wished he could sleep forever, away from the pain. Away in his mind palace with Redbeard and his pirate costume. Away from everyone except John and Rosie. He didn’t ever want to leave 221B again. At least not until his face was fixed and his speech was back to normal.   
Rosie hugged Sherlock again and kissed his cheek. John reached forward and did the same. “Do you want me to stay?”  
“I . . . it’s . . . o . . . o . . . kay. G . . . g . . . g . . . go . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . R . . . Rosie. I . . . I’ll . . . j . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . g . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . sl . . . sl . . . sleep.”  
“You’re sure?”  
Sherlock nodded and laid down. John went to the cupboard and got out a blanket to lay over him, kissing him on the forehead. “Call if you need anything.”  
Sherlock nodded. He wanted John to stay. He wanted to feel John’s touch, be warm in his arms, surrounded by his scent. But Rosie had been upset too, and she needed her father.  
Sherlock could still hear that sweet, little voice asking, “Uncle Sherlock, are you a retard?” The pain every time he thought of it was almost suffocating. He knew she hadn’t known what the word meant and didn’t mean to hurt him. But it hurt nonetheless.  
Both times he’d gone out, to be treated that way. Apparently, it had become acceptable to mistreat those who were scarred, paralyzed, and brain damaged.   
He wanted a normal life with John, but there would never be any normalcy to their life together. Even if he was the man he used to be, their life would never have been normal in any case. But John would be able to go on cases with him, running through London.  
Now John was a family man with a daughter and another child on the way. And he was stuck with Sherlock. He really couldn’t imagine that John would be happy with him for long. Right now, he felt like he had to stay. But when he had Rosie and a baby, he wouldn’t have time for Sherlock, and he would realize he couldn’t deal with two children and an invalid.   
He thought it would just be a matter of time. They all told him — Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, and especially John — that he would never leave Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn’t imagine a future. He wanted one with his whole heart. He was so afraid that he would end up in an institution by himself. If John wasn’t there, he didn’t want to live at 221B. It was only home because John was there. He’d rather die than go into an institution but there might be no other place for him. Mycroft was too busy, and Sherlock didn’t fancy staying with people paid to take care of him. His parents were too old to care for his needs. And there was no one else. He couldn’t ask his friends.  
Sherlock felt the blackness coming for him and welcomed it hoping he would sleep for days.  
John checked on Sherlock and found him sleeping. Mycroft took his leave, promising it wasn’t over.  
John watched a movie with Rosie and played some games with her.  
Sherlock was still asleep at dinner time. John made he and Rosie soup and sandwiches. That evening was quiet. He read some books to Rosie and got her bathed. Rosie asked if she could sleep with them. John got ready, and they all went to bed.  
John looked at the two people he loved the most in the world.  
As Rosie fell asleep, John laid thinking. He had to stop pushing Sherlock into things he wasn’t ready for. He could have beaten that man today for hurting Sherlock like that. The look on Sherlock’s face would haunt him for a long time.  
Sherlock was well aware of what he’d once been capable of. That he could look at a crime scene and deduce the killer in minutes sometimes. That his mind palace had been the storeroom of so much information. Now it was gone and probably never coming back. And to be called . . . that word . . . was the worst thing that anyone could ever have called him now. He hated the thought that other people could hurt Sherlock like that. He’d been tormented by other people all of his life and had pretended not to be bothered by it. But John remembered every single time Donovan called him “freak,” there would be a flash of hurt in his eyes. Just a flash, but John had always seen it. The flash came before the mask that would drop down and which made others think he was an emotionless machine.   
But, from the beginning, John had known that instead of feeling nothing, Sherlock had always felt too much. And now that he had no control over his emotions, it was even worse. The fact that he was especially emotional right now, that his self-esteem was at a very low point, and that he was plagued by self-doubt was a trifecta of troubles leading to today.  
He looked at Sherlock, his heart paining for him. Sherlock’s heart was so fragile, and John was afraid for him. For now, he knew not to push him anymore. Sherlock had feared going out in public and had had two bad experiences that had been devastating to him.  
Sherlock needed to be his focus now. He needed to make Sherlock feel better somehow.   
John eventually fell into a troubled sleep.

In the morning, John woke first. He used the opportunity to take a long, hot shower, listening carefully in case Rosie or Sherlock needed him. Clad only in his pants, he snuck back into the room to dress before going up to get clothes for Rosie for the day.  
He made himself a cup of tea after he went down for the paper. He sat down in his chair and leisurely read the paper, enjoying his alone time.   
He heard giggling from the bedroom. He got up, wanting to make sure Rosie didn’t wake up Sherlock. However, when he went in, he found a laughing Sherlock and Rosie tickling each other.   
John smiled. “Hey now, what’s all this racket?”  
“Papa! Sherlock won’t stop tickling!” she said between gales of laughter.  
“N . . . n . . . nei . . . ther . . . w . . . w . . . will . . . you,” Sherlock said, laughing.  
“I’m gonna pee!” Rosie squealed.  
Sherlock stopped and she hurried off the bed into the loo.  
John saw the happiness on Sherlock’s face and smiled.  
“O . . . our . . . g . . . g . . . girl . . . is . . . s . . . so . . . beau . . . ti . . . ful . . . is . . . n’t . . . sh . . . she? L . . . l . . . looks . . . j . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . you.”  
The fact that Sherlock had called her “our” girl wasn’t lost on John.  
“She certainly is beautiful. Don’t know that she looks like me.”   
Sherlock looked up at John, the smile vanishing from his face. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry. Sh . . . sh . . . should . . . n’t . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . said . . . o . . . our . . . g . . . g . . . girl.”  
“Why not? You’re her stepfather after all.”  
“Y . . . you . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . ‘t . . . m . . . m . . . min . . . d?”  
“Of course not. I love the fact that you love Rosie. And I know you’ll love the baby too. We’re a family, Sherlock. The only family I’ll ever want.”  
Sherlock smiled. “I . . . sh . . . should . . . g . . . g . . . go . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . loo . . . a . . . as . . . s . . . soon . . . as . . . sh . . . sh . . . she’s . . . d . . . d . . . done.”  
When Rosie came back, John picked Sherlock up and took him to the loo. When they got back, Rosie was sitting on the bed as John set Sherlock down. They exchanged a glance and Sherlock pulled John into the bed, where both proceeded to tickle him.  
All three were roaring with laughter and gasping for breath by the time they heard the lift engage. A few seconds later, Mycroft walked into the room.  
“Uncle Mycroft! We’re tickling Papa!”  
“I can see. Heard all of you laughing as soon as I opened the door downstairs.” Mycroft said, smiling. “It’s good to see you smiling, Sherlock. And it’s been far too long since I heard you laugh.”  
“Pr . . . pr . . . pre . . . sent . . . c . . . com . . . p . . . any . . . h . . . h . . . helps . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . b . . . bet . . . ter.”  
John smiled at him. “We used to get fits of giggles all the time. In just the wrong circumstances. Remember?”  
Sherlock nodded, but some of the light faded from his eye and his smile.  
“Well, I thought I’d come by for breakfast,” Mycroft said.  
“Perfect. I’ll get it going. I got your clothes out, Rosie. They’re upstairs. I’ll get Brad, Sherlock, so you can have your bath.”  
John bent over and kissed Sherlock gently before hopping out of bed and straightening his clothes and his hair.   
He followed Mycroft out to the kitchen. When Rosie had gone upstairs and Sherlock and Brad into the loo, Mycroft said, “Our little problem has been dealt with.”  
“What did you do to the bastard?”  
“Tax trouble. He’ll be audited every year for the rest of his life. And any small infraction will carry the maximum fine. His boy’s been reported as a bully to the headmaster of his school, which, it turns out, is true unsurprisingly. I’ve left the woman alone as it appears she was horrified, though I will be sending her anonymous divorce lawyer referrals.”  
“Good. He’ll think next time before he says anything like that again. If he can figure out that that’s what caused all of his trouble. It would’ve been more satisfying to kick his ass, but that would have upset Sherlock and Rosie more.”  
“I’m glad to see it hasn’t ruined their relationship.”  
“Sherlock never blamed her. He knew she didn’t know what that word meant. But I think having her say it hurt him much more than he’s willing to admit.”  
“Yes, I agree. He feels so useless right now. He can’t do anything much for himself. He needs constant help. He can’t speak properly. He’s had bad experiences when he leaves the flat. I fear he’s going to isolate himself more and more. At least until he gets the surgery.”  
“I think he’s putting too much stock in it. He seems to think that fixing his face will help everything.”  
“It’s his way. He knows it’s the easiest thing to fix. It’s what people see. If he can be attractive again, he thinks people will be nicer to him. He’s probably not wrong.”   
“it is terrible how that works.”  
“Dr. Matthews will be here next week for a meeting.”  
“Dr. Peter Matthews?” John whistled. “You really are going for the big guns.”  
“I promised him I would.”  
“You probably don’t ever hear this, Mycroft, but you are a good brother. Much better than I ever was. You’ve never given up on Sherlock.”  
“I owe him so much. I’ll never forgive myself for how I treated him when he was a boy. He was so lonely. All he needed was for me to treat him right. But I was so caught up in myself, in my future career. He spiralled out of control and by the time I realized it, it was nearly too late. The only compromise I could get was that he’d give me a list of the drugs he’d taken when he got high. And I had to fight hard to get that. If I would take the pain back, make it my own, I would.”  
“So would I. People seem to think he doesn’t have feelings, that he doesn’t care. I know I was guilty of that myself. How many times I said or thought, “Sherlock doesn’t feel things like that.” But he loves deeper than anyone I know. He’s willing to be hurt, ready to die for his friends and family. How much he’s sacrificed for us. He’s taken on Moriarty and a thousand lesser criminals to save people and what does he get from the public? They call him freak. He’s told me he’d rather Mary hurt him than hurt me. He clawed himself back from death when Mary shot him because he thought I was in danger. He died for me, he killed for me. He gave up his reputation and was gone for two years to protect us. He let them mutilate his legs and hands and let them ruin his mind to protect us. And he doesn’t ask one thing of us in return. Noe even for us to love him back. And all because he thinks — he truly believes — he’s not worth loving.” John’s voice broke on the last word. It broke his heart to think Sherlock didn’t consider himself worthy of love.  
“I know. He thinks I do all of this for him because I’m ashamed of him, that I want to protect my own reputation regarding my drug addict little brother. He can’t even believe that I love him and I do, very much so. He even doubts our parent’s love.”  
“And he feels any perceived rejection so deeply. Molly told me about the devastated look on his face when he left my wedding early. I broke his heart that day. And I knew it. When he deduced that Mary was pregnant, he told us we would be great parents because we looked after him. And then he said we’d hardly need him around with a real baby on the way. The smile faded from his face, and the light went completely out of his eyes. I was going to say something but he told us to go dance. And I lost track of him after he left. Then with the honeymoon, I forgot about it. I wish there was some way I could take it back.”  
“We all have regrets, John. The thing is though, that he has you now. You’re his and he’s yours. He wants you to be happy, and as long as he’s sure he makes you happy, everything will be fine.”  
“I’d like to be able to convince him. He’s so afraid that I’m going to leave.”   
“I think it would destroy him. He’s given his heart to you, John. That’s a precious thing. It shows a level of trust he’s never had with anyone.”  
“And I’d rather die than betray that trust.”  
Mycroft patted John on the shoulder. “I’m glad he has you in his life.”  
Rosie came downstairs, and John kissed her on the forehead. “How ‘bout French toast?”  
“Yeah!”  
“Do you wanna help?”  
“Can I, Papa?”  
“Sure.” John got her out an apron while he put the kettle on.  
He handed Mycroft a steaming hot cup of tea and took a sip of his own before digging out the eggs and milk. He carefully broke eggs into a dish and poured in some milk. He handed Rosie the whisk and set her to work while he got out the bread and heated a burner on the cooker.   
By the time Sherlock was dressed, the French toast was ready. They all sat down to eat. After breakfast, Mycroft excused himself to go to work, thanking John and Rosie for the delicious breakfast.  
“What should we do today?” John asked as he finished the dishes.  
“I . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . R . . . R . . . osie . . . sh . . . sh . . . ould . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . m . . . movies. I . . . h . . . hear . . . th . . . th . . . there’s . . . a . . . g . . . g . . . good . . . m . . . m . . . movie . . . pl . . . ay . . . ing,” Sherlock said.  
“Yeah, Papa. Let’s do that. We can go to the park after.”  
“I noticed you said Rosie and me. You can come too.”  
“I . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so. You . . . t . . . two . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . f . . . fun. I . . . h . . . have . . . th . . . th . . . er . . . apy. Th . . . th . . . is . . . w . . . will . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . u . . . up . . . f . . . for . . . yes . . . t . . . er . . . day.”   
“What’ll you do?”  
“I . . . h . . . have . . . th . . . er . . . apy . . . a . . . all . . . d . . . day. B . . . Bra . . . d . . . i . . . is . . . h . . . here . . . if . . . I . . . n . . . n . . . need . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . ing. I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . h . . . he . . . c . . . can . . . m . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . l . . . lun . . . ch. You . . . t . . . t . . . two . . . d . . . d . . . des . . . erve . . . a . . . D . . . D . . . Dad . . . dy . . . a . . . and . . . D . . . D . . . Daugh . . . ter . . . D . . . Day. J . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . two . . . o . . . of . . . you.”  
John looked doubtful. He hated the idea of leaving Sherlock alone. And he knew Sherlock had brought it up in front of Rosie just so John was more apt to say yes.  
“Please, Papa. I’ll be good. I promise.”  
“I know you will. Are you sure, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock nodded.   
“Alright. Just this once.”  
“Yay!” Rosie yelled.  
“I . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . f . . . f . . . for . . . R . . . R . . . Rosie. C . . . c . . . come . . . h . . . here.” He awkwardly reached his shaking hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “I . . . w . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . buy . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . n . . . n . . . nice.”  
“Thank you, Uncle Sherlock!” she squealed and jumped into his lap, throwing her arms around him in a hug.  
Sherlock winced but then returned the hug.   
“Y . . . you . . . re . . . w . . . w . . . wel . . . c . . . come.”  
“Look, Papa!” Rosie said.  
“That’s too much, Sherlock,” John said.  
“L . . . l . . . let . . . h . . . her . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . some . . . f . . . f . . . fun . . . J . . . J . . . John,” Sherlock said, smiling.  
“So . . . movies, park, shopping, and I suppose lunch. We’ll go when the speech therapist comes at 11. Okay?”  
“How long?”  
“Another two hours.”  
“I can’t wait!”  
“Go and colour maybe and play with Aurora,” John said, smiling.  
She rushed off after her kitten.  
“Sherlock, you don’t have to do this. We’re a family. It’s not just Rosie and me. It’s Rosie, you, and me. She loves you.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . her . . . too. I . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . th . . . thought . . . it . . . w . . .would . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . b . . . bet . . . ter . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . two . . . o . . . of . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . t . . . to . . . geth . . . er . . . t . . . to . . . day. I . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . an . . . oth . . . er . . . br . . . br . . . eak . . . d . . . down . . . in . . . f . . . fr . . . ont . . . o . . . of . . . h . . . her . . . a . . . g . . . gain. I . . . up . . . s . . . set . . . h . . . her . . . en . . . enough. I . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . th . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . two . . . o . . . of . . . you . . . to . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . f . . . fun . . . w . . . with . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . oth . . . er . . . w . . . with . . . out . . . h . . . hav . . . ing . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . w . . . wor . . . ry . . . a . . . bout . . . m . . . me.”  
“Are you sure you’ll be okay here?”  
“I . . . h . . . have . . . ev . . . ery . . . th . . . thing . . . I . . . n . . . n . . . need.”  
“Alright. You win.”  
“D . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . l . . . l . . . look . . . s . . . so . . . wor . . . ried.”  
John smiled at Sherlock and bent forward to kiss him softly on the lips. “I love you.”  
“I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
When John and Rosie left a few hours later, the speech therapist noticed Sherlock’s sad mood but chose not to comment on it. When she left, he asked Brad to wheel him to the window in the sitting room. He wished John was there. He missed him. Aurora came over and jumped into his lap. He absentmindedly petted the kitten as her loud purr filled the room.  
He knew he had to get used to this. John had a life. He didn’t want to be stuck here with Sherlock all the time. He and Rosie and soon the baby needed to get outside, needed to feel free to come and go. Sherlock had tried, despite his certainty that leaving the flat would be disastrous, as indeed it had.  
He didn’t think the could bear it again. He didn’t want people staring at him, especially if they had pity on their face or disgust.  
He looked down at Aurora. “I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . b . . . b . . . back,” he whispered.  
The kitten looked up at him with its big green eyes and meowed.  
Sherlock smiled sadly and looked back out the window. This was going to be the closest he was going to get to the outdoors. He didn’t want to get any closer. This was his world now. This flat and his little family. He would give it one more shot after his facial surgery but not until then. He knew John would have even less time for him when the baby came, but Sherlock knew he couldn’t complain. Any time at all with John was precious to him. But John had his children to think of, not just Sherlock.  
John would need help but what could Sherlock do? He couldn’t feed a baby. He couldn’t change his own nappies, let alone a baby’s. He supposed he could hold one for awhile or maybe lay with one on the bed but not much more than that. He couldn’t get up in the middle of the night to feed the baby and give John a break either.  
Sherlock felt tears coming and was finding it hard to swallow past the hard lump of sadness in his throat. He let the tears come but not the sobs. Brad would report it to John. So he sat there with tears streaming down his face, silently sobbing. He wished he didn’t feel so utterly useless. He wished he could do more. When he thought back about how much he’d taken advantage of other people to do things for him — John doing the cooking, the shopping, the dishes, cleaning, making him eat and sleep — Mrs. Hudson cleaning and washing clothes for them and shopping — Mycroft making sure they were safe because Sherlock was reckless — Greg looking out for them — Molly loving him and his using her.  
Sherlock didn’t deserve any of them, especially John. But John insisted on staying. But he was sure that one day, John would go.  
“Oh . . . J . . . J . . . John.”  
He refused lunch and sat there until Dr. Cooper came. He could tell that Sherlock had been crying. “Are you alright?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“Where are John and Rosie?”  
“O . . . out.”  
“They left you?”  
“I . . . in . . . sis . . . ted.”  
“Why?”  
“S . . . so . . . th . . . they . . . c . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . g . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time. I . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . g . . . go.”  
“Why not?”  
“P . . . p . . . peo . . . ple . . . m . . . make . . . f . . . fun . . . o . . . of . . . m . . . me.”  
“And? You have to get stronger, Sherlock. You need to toughen up. There will always be people who stare, who make fun, who say nasty things to those who are different. It’s not fair. It’s not right. But you can’t isolate yourself in the flat. You need to get out into the world. Back up on the horse, so to speak.”  
Sherlock stared down at the kitten in his lap. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. None of this would work. He couldn’t. No more. No more. He felt himself shaking from his feet to the top of his head. The sobs were building.  
“Calm down, Sherlock,” Dr. Cooper said. “Calm down. Stop this. Stop this right now.”  
Wave after wave of emotion broke over him. He felt overwhelmed. The kitten, sensing his distress, jumped off his lap.  
Sherlock began to wail. Wordless howls broke from his throat. He was blinded by tears. He felt like he was dying.  
He could feel Dr. Cooper’s hand on him. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t.  
“I’ll call John. I’ll get him back.”  
“N . . . N . . . N . . . N . . . NO!”  
“You don’t want me to call him?”  
Sherlock shook his head.  
“Let’s get you calmed down.” He turned to Brad. “Get me a sedative.”  
He wheeled Sherlock into the bedroom. Brad lifted him up and put him in bed. Dr. Cooper gave him the sedative as he slowly, very slowly started to calm down.  
As the sobs began to subside, a wave of extreme fatigue came over him.   
“I’m sorry I upset you, Sherlock. There’re so many things that need to be discussed. I was a bit too harsh. I realize that. But there are steps you’re going to have to take to get over this.”  
“O . . . o . . . over . . . th . . . th . . . this?”  
“Your fear of going into public. It’s understandable but you can’t go on like this. You can’t isolate yourself.”  
“I . . . h . . . have . . . fr . . . fr . . . iends. I . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . f . . . fam . . . ily. I . . . h . . . have . . . J . . . J . . . John.”  
“But you can’t feel this badly about yourself. Have you even looked in a mirror yet?”  
“N . . . n . . . no.”  
“Why?”  
“I . . . d . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . face.”  
“I remember reading a comic when I was young. It was Batman. The villain kidnapped all these beautiful people and had them turned into monsters because he had been in an accident and thought his face destroyed. Batman forced him to look in a mirror and there was only a small scar as long as a thumbnail under his eye.”  
“I . . . h . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . a . . . t . . . ti . . . ny . . . s . . . sc . . . scar.”  
“Yes. But you can’t let it define your life. You’re more than your face.”  
Sherlock, frustrated, grabbed for his computer. “DO YOU THINK THAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT VANITY?”  
“That’s what it appears . . .”  
He started stabbing at the keyboard. “IT IS NOT ABOUT VANITY. I AM UPSET ABOUT MY FACE BECAUSE IT SCARES PEOPLE AND BECAUSE IF I CANNOT SEE IT, THEN SOMETIMES I CAN ALMOST PRETEND THAT IT WAS NOT SCARRED. I JUST HAVE TO LOOK DOWN — MY HANDS, MY LEGS, MY CHEST, THE NAPPIES. I CAN SEE ALL THAT THEY HAVE DONE TO ME. IF I IGNORE THAT I CANNOT SEE OUT OF MY LEFT EYE, I CAN PRETEND PART OF ME IS STILL WHOLE. PART OF ME IS STILL . . . ME.” He looked up at him, his eyes filled with tears. “I HAVE LOST EVERYTHING THAT WAS ME. MY MIND AND MY BODY ARE IRREPARABLY DAMAGED. IS IT SO WRONG THAT I WANT SOME PART OF ME TO BE FIXED? MY BROTHER IS GETTING ONE OF THE WORLD’S BEST PLASTIC SURGEONS. HE CANNOT RESTORE MY EYE BUT HE CAN MAKE ME LOOK LIKE ME AGAIN. AT LEAST SOMETHING WILL BE THE SAME.”  
“I understand what you’re saying. And it makes sense. I can see why you want to have something fixed. But you can’t stay here forever.”  
“WHY NOT? I DON’T HAVE ANY REASON TO LEAVE. JOHN AND MYCROFT BRING WHAT I NEED. IT IS NOT AS IF I COULD GO SHOPPING ANYWAY.”  
“What about John? Doesn’t he want you to get out once and awhile?”  
“HE DOES. AND IT HAS BEEN DISASTROUS EACH TIME. I HAVE BEEN THE OBJECT OF RIDICULE MY WHOLE LIFE. I DO NOT WANT TO BE SUBJECTED TO IT NOW. I CANNOT CONTROL MY EMOTIONS AND I DON’T WANT TO TAKE THE CHANCE THAT I WILL BURST INTO TEARS IN FRONT OF SOMEONE. IT WAS A VERY CLOSE CALL AT THE ZOO. IT IS BAD ENOUGH TO BE HUMILIATED BY WHAT THEY SAY, LET ALONE BY CRYING IN FRONT OF THEM.”  
“Again, I understand what you’re saying, but hiding here isn’t good for you. It’s letting them win.”  
“I DON’T CARE. THEY LOOK AT ME AND HEAR ME SPEAK AND THINK I AM MENTALLY CHALLENGED. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT HURTS? I REMEMBER WHAT I USED TO BE ABLE TO DO AND IT TEARS ME TO PIECES KNOWING I WILL NEVER BE LIKE THAT AGAIN. I DO NOT NEED TO BE REMINDED BY STRANGERS ON THE STREET THAT I AM NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES THE WORLD’S ONLY CONSULTING DETECTIVE ANYMORE.”  
“It’s not everyone who treats you that way. It’s just people who don’t know any better or who are just bigoted about the physically challenged.”  
“THE WOMAN AT THE ZOO THOUGHT I SHOULD BE LOCKED AWAY. MAYBE SHE IS RIGHT.”  
“No, she’s not. Sherlock, you don’t have to go to an institution. You’re here with John and your family and friends. There’s absolutely no need to change your living arrangements because of a few negative and ignorant people. I know what they said hurt you. I know it didn’t help your self-esteem at all, but you can’t let other people control where you go or what you do. You can’t let other people decide where you should live.”  
Sherlock told Dr. Cooper what had happened the day before, about Mr. Walters and the incident at the McDonalds.   
“Again, more ignorant people. I don’t think Mr. Walters meant anything by what he said. And the idiot and his son at the restaurant . . . there’s no excuse for what they said. They can’t tell you where to go.”  
“ANYONE CAN. IT IS NOT AS IF I COULD STOP THEM.”  
“You have to stop this. You’re questioning everything even John’s love for you. You should be able to count on that.”  
“I HAVE NEVER AND WILL NEVER FEEL WORTHY OF HIM.”  
“Why?”  
“I AM SCARRED. I AM BROKEN. I AM NOT THE MAN I WAS. AND I AM DIRTY AND DISGUSTING.”  
“Because you were raped?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Do you honestly think that John thinks you’re dirty and disgusting?”  
“I DO NOT KNOW. HE SAYS HE DOESN’T. BUT HOW CAN HE EVER WANT ME? HOW CAN WE EVER HAVE SEX? HE WILL ALWAYS BE AFRAID. AND HOW CAN I LET HIM TOUCH ME AND NOT FEEL THEM?”  
“He’s John. You know he would never hurt you. And there are other ways to have sex. You don’t have to have penetrative sex.”  
“BUT THE OPTION DOES NOT SEEM TO BE THERE ANYMORE. I USED TO DREAM OF IT, OF HIM PENETRATING ME, OF HOW GOOD IT WOULD FEEL, OF ME GROANING HIS NAME. NOW IT HURTS. IT FEELS LIKE I’M BEING RIPPED APART.” He looked down at his shaking hands.  
“Oh Sherlock,” Dr. Cooper said as he reached over and touched his arm. “Not between people who are consenting. And for people who love each other . . . it can be wonderful. A caring partner would never hurt you. They would prepare you and get you ready. You aren’t ready for anything like that yet. Not for a while, maybe not ever. But I can help you. Give you exercises to relax you — to take your mind away from them. To overwrite the old memories with new ones. With John.”  
“BUT WE CANNOT. NOT YET.”  
“You aren’t ready yet. How long did you have in mind?”  
“NOT UNTIL AFTER THE SIX-MONTH HIV TEST.”  
“Sherlock, there’s always safe sex . . .”  
“JOHN SAID. BUT I WILL NOT TAKE THE RISK OF INFECTING HIM.”  
“And if you are HIV positive?”  
“THEN JOHN WILL HAVE TO DECIDE. THIS WILL ALL BE MOOT. I WILL NOT HAVE SEX WITH HIM. HE WILL LEAVE AFTER AWHILE. JOHN IS A VERY SEXUAL MAN. HE WILL NOT LIVE WITHOUT IT. I CANNOT ASK HIM TO. I WILL GET MYCROFT TO SEND ME AWAY AS SOON AS THE RESULTS COME BACK. TO SPARE JOHN. HE WILL BE ANGRY AT FIRST. BUT HE WILL REALIZE AFTER AWHILE. THAT IT IS FOR THE BEST.”  
“Best for who? Certainly not for you. Do you want to leave John?”  
“NO. NEVER. IT IS BEST FOR HIM. I DO NOT MATTER, ONLY JOHN.”  
“Then you have to be prepared to let him make up his own mind. I’ve talked to him. He loves you, Sherlock.”  
“I KNOW. AT LEAST HE THINKS HE IS.”  
“You doubt it?”  
“I AM AFRAID HE FEELS HE HAS TO LOVE ME.”  
“Because he feels guilty?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“You think he feels he has to love you because you love him?”  
Sherlock nodded again.  
“You don’t think much of him, do you?”  
Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, anger flashing across his face. “HE IS THE BEST PERSON I KNOW. I LOVE HIM MORE THAN LIFE. I AM JUST AFRAID OF WHAT WILL HAPPEN.”  
“Can’t you just enjoy living with him and loving him? Enjoy being loved?”  
“I WANT TO. I DO. BUT I CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT IT.”  
“You’re continuously punishing yourself, Sherlock. You won’t let yourself be happy.”  
“BECAUSE IT WILL NOT LAST. IT NEVER DOES. THEY LEAVE ME. THEY HURT ME. ALL OF THEM. THEY WANTED ME TO DO THEIR HOMEWORK OR GIVE THEM ANSWERS AND THEN THEY LEFT. MY LEFT. MY PARENTS GOT TIRED OF ME. GREG NEEDED ME TO SOLVE MURDERS. MOLLY BECAUSE SHE LOVED ME. MRS. HUDSON OUT OF GRATITUDE BECAUSE I SAVED HER FROM HER HUSBAND. AND JOHN . . .”  
“What about John?”  
“I DO NOT KNOW. I AM SO CONFUSED. I DO NOT FEEL LIKE I AM GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM. I WAS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR ANYONE ELSE. WHY WOULD I BE GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM? ESPECIALLY HIM.”  
“Because you’re you. Because he loves you. That’s enough.”  
“BUT WHY DOES HE LOVE ME? THERE IS NOTHING HERE GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM TO LOVE.”  
“You have to stop this. Let him love you, Sherlock. For as long as it lasts. Please let him love you. Let it wash over you and enjoy it. Trust him. You trust him with your life. Trust him with your heart.”  
“I DO TRUST HIM. I DIED FOR HIM. I KILLED FOR HIM.”  
“Then let him love you.”  
“TO GIVE MY HEART . . . I . . . DO NOT KNOW.”  
“Love him, Sherlock. Trust yourself. Trust your heart with him.”  
“I WILL TRY.”  
They talked until the hour was up.  
“Let me call John and ask him to come home. You shouldn’t be alone.”  
“NO. HE NEEDS THIS TIME WITH ROSIE. I WILL NOT BE ALONE LONG. THE SPEECH THERAPIST WILL BE HERE SOON. AND JOHN AND ROSIE WILL BE BACK AFTER THAT.”  
“Alright, just this once. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
As soon as he left, Sherlock asked Sam to take him to the loo and then to the sitting room.  
He had his therapy in the sitting room and, after, sat looking out the window waiting for John.  
It got later and later. It started to get dark and still they hadn’t come. Sherlock refused supper.  
Finally, at nearly eight o’clock, he saw a cab pull up and the two of them got out, carrying bags and laughing.   
Sherlock was so happy they were okay that he wasn’t angry.  
When they came upstairs, Rosie ran over to Sherlock. “Uncle Sherlock. Look what I bought!” She pulled a handful of books out of the bag and a small stuffed puppy. “I bought these with the money you gave me and my allowance.”  
“Th . . . th . . . they . . . re . . . v . . . ver . . . y . . . n . . . n . . . nice.” Sherlock smiled. “W . . . will . . . you . . . r . . . read . . . o . . . one . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . l . . . lat . . . er?”  
She nodded and yawned. “We had a great day. We went to the park and to lunch and to the movies and shopping and to dinner and then more shopping. It was so great.”  
“I . . . I . . . I’m . . . g . . . gl . . . glad . . . you . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . t . . . time.”  
“How about you?” John asked as he came over and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “You okay?”  
“I . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . w . . . w . . . wor . . . ried.”  
“I should have called. We were having such a great time, the time just passed so quickly. Let’s get you in the tub, young lady.”  
“I promised to read to Sherlock.”  
“You can after. Go and get your pyjamas.”  
Sherlock felt left out as Rosie went to the lift and John into the loo to draw a bath.  
Sherlock asked Brad to get him ready for bed. He laid down and pulled the covers up. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He took his medication and laid there, wishing sleep would come.  
“You’re in bed early,” John said as he came in the bedroom.  
“T . . . tired. You . . . g . . . go . . . w . . . w . . . watch . . . T . . . TV . . . if . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . o . . . or . . . wh . . . what . . . e . . . ever . . . you . . . w . . . w . . . want.”  
“Are you upset about something?”  
Sherlock shook his head as Rosie came in the room and hopped up on the bed with one of her books. She read it to Sherlock with him occasionally helping with a word.  
When she finished, John told her it was bedtime. She kissed Sherlock good night and thanked him again for the money he’d given her.  
“Y . . . you . . . re . . . w . . . wel . . . c . . . come. G . . . g . . . goo . . . d . . . n . . . n . . . night.”  
“Good night.”  
As the two of them went upstairs, Sherlock rolled towards the window. He didn’t really want to talk to John. He closed his eyes, ignoring his burning stomach and his dry throat.  
Ten minutes later, John came back. “Really tired, huh? Are you sure you’re not upset?”  
Sherlock didn’t answer.  
“I know you aren’t asleep. What’s wrong?”  
“N . . . n . . . noth . . . ing.” His stomach growled loudly.  
“Didn’t you eat dinner?”  
“N . . . n . . . not . . . h . . . hun . . . gr . . . y.”  
“Don’t lie to me. You were waiting for me, weren’t you?”  
Sherlock nodded.   
“You feel left out?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. You wanted me to go with Rosie.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know. A . . . a . . . and . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . ou . . . t . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . h . . . her . . . m . . . more. I . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . r . . . r . . . rough . . . d . . . day.”  
“What happened?”  
“I . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . o . . . of . . . a . . . br . . . eak . . . d . . . d . . . down.”  
“What? What happened?” John was instantly beside Sherlock reaching out to gather him in his arms.  
“I . . . it’s . . . o . . . o . . . kay. I . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . jus . . . t . . . a . . . bout . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . p . . . prob . . . lem . . . a . . . bout . . . m . . . me . . . g . . . go . . . ing . . . o . . . out. P . . . p . . . peop . . . le . . . m . . . m . . . mak . . . ing . . . f . . . fun . . .o . . . of . . . m . . . me. D . . . D . . . Doc . . . tor . . . C . . . C . . . Coo . . . per . . . c . . . came. H . . . he . . . c . . . c . . . calm . . . ed . . . m . . . me . . . d . . .d . . . down.”  
“He should have called me.”  
“H . . . he . . . w . . . want . . . ed . . . t . . . to. I . . . w . . . would . . . n’t . . . l . . . l . . . let . . . h . . . him. You . . . d . . . des . . . erved . . . y . . . your . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . R . . . Rosie.”  
“Oh love. I don’t want you suffering. And you were. I would have come home.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to. You . . . d . . . des . . . erve . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . h . . . her. I . . . c . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . m . . . mon . . . opo . . . lize . . . y . . . your . . . t . . . time . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . th . . . that. You . . . sp . . . sp . . . end . . . a . . . all . . . o . . . of . . . your . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. I . . . it . . . is . . . n’t . . . f . . . fair . . . t . . . to . . . eith . . . er . . . o . . . of . . . you.”  
John squeezed Sherlock tighter. “You really care. I’m so lucky to have you in my life. But I don’t want you suffering in silence. I’m here whenever you need me. And I’m sorry for not getting home sooner. I wish I could have been here.”  
“You . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time. Th . . . th . . . that’s . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . that . . . m . . . mat . . . ters.”  
John pulled away from Sherlock and smiled at him. He reached up and touched his face. “You really are wonderful.” He kissed Sherlock on the lips. “I love you.”  
“I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
“I’m going to get you something to eat. Some toast, maybe?”  
“A . . . and . . . s . . . some . . . tea.”  
John undressed for bed as Sherlock ate the toast with jam and drank the tea. He wiped up Sherlock’s face and hands as the two of them laid down, Sherlock in John’s arms.  
When John woke in the morning, Sherlock had moved out of his arms and was laying beside him, looking at him.  
“Good morning, love,” he said, pecking Sherlock on the lips.  
“M . . . m . . . morn . . . ing.”  
“You been awake long?” John looked at the clock. He’d have to get up soon to get Rosie ready for school.  
“N . . . no. J . . . j . . . jus . . .t . . . s . . . st . . . star . . . ing . . . a . . . at . . . you.”  
John chuckled. “Something on my face?” he asked, wiping at it.  
“H . . . h . . . hand . . . s . . . some . . . n . . . ness.”  
John could feel himself turning red.   
Sherlock began to laugh. “You . . . ‘re . . . t . . . turn . . . ing . . . r . . . red.”  
“I’m embarrassed. I’m not handsome.”  
“O . . . of . . . c. . . .course . . . you . . . are,” Sherlock reached out with a shaking hand and touched John’s face.  
John smiled and kissed him again. It was warm and cozy and he was laying there with the man he loved. “I’m so happy right now. So happy being here with you.”  
Sherlock looked surprised. “R . . . r . . . real . . . ly? Y . . . you . . . ‘re . . . h . . . hap . . . py . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me?”  
“Of course I am. I love you. And here. At 221B with you . . . is home. It will always be home. And here . . . with you is everything to me.”  
Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. “A . . . and . . . I . . . I’m . . . h . . . h . . . hap . . . py . . . w . . . with . . . you. You . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . feel . . . wh . . . whole.”  
John smiled. “Really?”  
“W . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . at . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . it . . . m . . . makes . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . g . . . get.”  
“I love you.”  
“I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
“Do you want to get up now or wait until after Rosie leaves?”  
“N . . . n . . . need . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . .loo.”   
John helped him to the loo and got him a piece of toast and some tea before he got in the shower and quickly got dressed. A few minutes later, he headed upstairs to get Rosie out of bed.  
That morning, after Sherlock was bathed and dressed, John took Sherlock down to visit Mrs. Hudson. They had a great morning together before John brought him back up for his speech therapy.  
Mrs. Hudson made them lunch and they spent part of the afternoon watching crap telly until Dr. Cooper came. John asked to speak with him.  
“What happened yesterday?”  
“Did Sherlock tell you?”  
“He said he had a breakdown.”  
“Yes. We worked through it.”  
“You didn’t call me.”  
“He insisted.”  
“He needed me. I had no idea. It was after seven before I got home. He wasn’t in the best of ways.”  
“He asked me not to tell you. I wanted to call you, but he insisted that I not call.”  
“You should have.”  
“He’s my patient, not you.”  
“But his best interests . . .”  
“He’s frightened. He’s insecure. He wants to know that his love is returned. He needs to feel like he belongs. Like he’s safe. Like he belongs. He never has in the past. And he so wants to believe that you’ll never, ever leave him. He needs that. He needs to know that his love for you is really something. That your love for him is going to last forever. I know it’s a lot to ask, but his biggest fear is that you’ll leave forever. He’d never survive it.”  
John paled. “Do you think so?”  
“I know so. He’s incredibly fragile, John. And he will be for a long time. Reassure him. Tell him you love him. Make him believe that you love him and always will. Make him believe that what happened to him doesn’t matter.”  
“I do love him. I always will. I told him so this morning.”  
“Keep doing that. And someday, he’ll believe it. It’s got nothing to do with your feelings. He knows you love him, but he doesn’t feel worthy of your love. Everyone has hurt him or left him. And he’s deathly afraid you’ll realize he’s not good enough for you, and you’ll go.”  
“If I have to spend the rest of my life telling him every day how much he means to me, I will.”  
“It might indeed come to that,” Dr. Cooper said, before he went to their bedroom to talk to Sherlock.  
As Sherlock’s appointment with Dr. Cooper ended, the doorbell rang downstairs. Mrs. Hudson brought up a young man with a bag.  
“Hi. My name’s Doug Jessome. I was sent by a Mr. Mycroft Holmes to take hand measurements of his brother. He’s to get a custom set of utensils to use for eating.”  
“Oh yes. Sherlock’ll be thrilled. Thanks. Just a second. I’ll go get him.” John went in and told Sherlock, who visibly brightened. He wheeled him out to the kitchen table where Doug had already taken out his measuring tapes. Sherlock didn’t look up at Doug until after John had stopped, which was a good thing given the quick look of surprise and pity on Doug’s face.  
“Hello, Mr. Holmes. If you could hold your hands out, I’d like to measure them.” Sherlock did as he was asked, making fists and submitting to the measurements. Doug was quickly finished.  
“W . . . wh . . . en . . . w . . . will . . . th . . . they . . . b . . . be . . . re . . . ready?” Sherlock asked.  
“About a week. I’ll make several sets for you, so you won’t have to worry about them giving out. I’ll do a basic knife, fork, and spoon set. I can do more forms of cutlery if that’s what you’d like.”  
“B . . . b . . . bas . . . ic . . . s . . . s . . . sounds . . . g . . . g . . . good.”  
“Great. I’ll get started in these tomorrow.”  
John showed Doug out.  
At the front door, Doug said, “He’s still going to have problems eating with the tremor.”  
“I know but some things will be easier. If you want to make the spoon a bit rounder so it holds more, that would probably help. We need to work up to the knife and fork.”  
“Right.”  
John went back upstairs. It hurt him to know that people reacted to Sherlock like they did. Maybe he was right. Maybe the facial surgery would help. He didn’t want to subject Sherlock to this if he could avoid it.   
He hoped Dr. Matthews would call soon and arrange the consultation.  
It was going to be a busy few months. A new helper dog, surgery, continuation of therapy. New physical therapy for Sherlock’s hands and an exercise program. Already three hours a day were set aside for therapy, but the speech therapy was helping and could probably be cut back within a few months.  
Sherlock was waiting for him.  
“Tea, love?” John asked.  
Sherlock nodded.  
The two sat sipping their tea. “This is great. You’ll have your utensils soon. I’m sure you’ll feel better.”  
“O . . . once . . . I . . . g . . . get . . . th . . . th . . . that . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . sur . . . sur . . . gery.”  
“I was just thinking of all the changes. Gladstone and the surgery and your therapy. Maybe we should get you some therapy for your hands when you get your utensils. And we were talking about exercise before.”  
“M . . . may . . . be. B . . . but . . . I . . . al . . . ready . . . h . . . have . . . th . . . three . . . h . . . hours . . . a . . . d . . . day . . . o . . . of . . . th . . . ther . . . apy. I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . kn . . . know . . . I . . . if . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . st . . . stand . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more.”  
“I know. But you need to get better. It’s a lot of work. But it will be worth it.”  
“I . . . w . . . wish. I . . . c . . . could . . . b . . . believe . . . th . . . that.”  
“You’ll be better. I promise. Your voice, your emotions. You’ll be able to eat on your own. Maybe even more. I know you hate being patient, but you need to be. It’ll all be alright.” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand.  
Sherlock closed his hand around John’s and leaned forward. John leaned forward too and their lips touched.  
That evening, the three of them sat curled up on the couch with cups of hot chocolate and a blanket as John sat in the middle reading a story. Sherlock had his head leaned against John’s shoulder, occasionally straightening to take a sip of the rich chocolate.  
Next, it was Rosie’s turn to read from the reader she’d brought home from school.  
Rosie looked expectantly at Sherlock when she’d finished.  
“S . . . s . . . sor . . . ry . . . R . . . Rosie. If . . . I . . . r . . . read . . . t . . . to . . . you . . . you . . . ll . . . b . . . be . . . u . . . up . . . a . . . all . . . n . . . night.”  
“It’s not that bad, Sherlock,” John said, nudging him.  
“M . . . may . . . b . . . be . . . if . . . I . . . ty . . . typed . . . it . . . in . . . to . . . m . . . my . . . c . . . com . . . pu . . . ter.”  
“No. You have to practice. Here,” he said as he chose a small book. “This one isn’t very long.”  
Laboriously, Sherlock began to read. John knew he was struggling and getting frustrated, but he encouraged him, as did Rosie. It was twenty minutes before he finished a book that should have taken five to read aloud.  
“Very good,” John said and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.  
“Good job, Uncle Sherlock,” Rosie said as she smiled and clapped.  
Sherlock’s face turned red, and he put his head down.  
“Hey, what’s this now?” John said.  
“E . . . em . . . b . . . bar . . . a . . . assed.”  
“About what? You did a great job.”  
Sherlock remained silent so John launched into another book. Sherlock looked away and didn’t pay attention. He put down his cup and snuggled under the blanket but a bit away from John.  
John knew he wasn’t sulking. He was embarrassed that he took so long to read the book. He took side looks every once and awhile and was surprised to see silent tears running down Sherlock’s face. He didn’t want to draw Rosie’s attention so he kept reading.   
Sherlock wiped his face when Rosie wasn’t looking.  
“Rosie, if you’d like a biscuit, there’s some fresh ones in the kitchen,” John told his daughter.  
When she got up, he turned to Sherlock. “Are you okay, love?”  
“S . . . s . . . sor . . . ry,” he whispered as he wiped at his face again.  
“Don’t be sorry. It’s me again, isn’t it? Pushing you toward things you’re not ready for. I’m the one who’s sorry.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . y . . . you’re . . . t . . . try . . . ing . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . help.”  
“But I end up hurting you every time.”  
“I . . . it’s . . . a . . . al . . . right.”  
“No. It’s not. Tell me if I’m not listening. Tell me.”  
“You . . . s . . . some . . . t . . . times . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . l . . . lis . . . ten.”  
“I know I don’t. And I push too far. I . . . I just want you to get well.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sor . . . ry.”  
“Don’t apologize. It’s none of it your fault. I’m just glad you’re here with me. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips.  
“Papa?” Rosie said, her mouth half full of biscuit.  
“Yes?”  
“It’s okay that you kiss Uncle Sherlock, isn’t it?”  
“Of course it is. I love him and he loves me.”  
“That’s what I thought. I told someone at school that I live with my Papa and Uncle Sherlock. They didn’t think it was right. They said I should be living with you and Mummy. But I told them Mummy was sick and you loved Uncle Sherlock now. They said you and Uncle Sherlock were the sick ones. You’re not going away too, are you?” The little girl looked scared.  
“Of course not. We aren’t going anywhere. Those other children don’t understand. Sometimes a man loves a woman. And I did love your Mummy for a long time. But I loved Sherlock longer and sometimes men love other men. Your Uncle Sherlock loves other men. And sometimes men can love both men and women. It’s called being bisexual. That’s what I am. Uncle Sherlock never loved anyone else, only me. But I’ve loved both Mummy and him.”  
“You love Uncle Sherlock more though, right?”  
“Right. Is that okay?”  
“It makes me sad sometimes. I miss my Mummy.”  
“I wish I could let you see her, love. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”  
She nodded trying very hard not to cry. “I know Uncle Sherlock makes you happier than you were with Mummy. I understand. And I want you to be happy, Papa. I really do. Please believe that. But I can’t help missing Mummy sometimes.”  
“I understand that sweetheart. And I’m not angry or upset. It’s fine to miss your Mummy. I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”  
John glanced over at Sherlock. He was shaking a bit, his eyes a bit glassy.  
“I . . . it’s . . . f . . . fine . . . I . . . u . . . un . . . der . . . s . . . stand.”  
Rosie seemed to relax then. “Those boys at school are wrong then. There’s nothing wrong with you and Uncle Sherlock living together or kissing or sleeping in the same bed. I’m going to tell them so.” She crawled back up beside them and called for Aurora, who came over and sat on Sherlock’s knee, kneading with her claws at the blanket and purring loudly until she settled down.  
Sherlock paid no attention. John could see that he was thinking. Unconsciously, he’d brought his hands up together and under his chin. The familiar gesture made John’s heart ache, especially as he noted the ravaged hands and the missing fingers.  
“Do you want another book before your bath?”  
“Yes.”  
John read this one slowly, giving Sherlock time to pull himself together. He sent Rosie upstairs for her pyjamas before he turned to him.  
“You okay?”  
“J . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . th . . . think . . . ing.”   
“About . . . Mary?”  
“I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . want . . .t . . . to . . . rem . . . em . . . ber . . . h . . . her . . . J . . . John. B . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . a . . . ask . . . R . . . Rosie . . . n . . . never . . . t . . . to . . . men . . . tion . . . h . . . her . . . a . . . again. I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . learn . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . with . . . it . . . a . . . and . . . s . . . stop . . . b . . . being . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . weak.”  
“You aren’t weak, Sherlock. You’re the strongest person I know. I have a hard time thinking about her too. You aren’t alone. But, unless we tell Rosie what Mary did, we can’t not expect her to ask questions about Mary. And she’s far too young to know. I actually don’t think she should know at all, ever.”  
“I . . . it’s . . . h . . . hard. I . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . self . . . ish.”  
“You have every right to feel this way.”  
“Sh . . . she . . . d . . . des . . . tr . . . oyed . . . m . . . me. . . J . . . John. M . . . my . . . b . . . body . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind. Sh . . . she . . . c . . . cost . . . m . . . me . . . ev . . . ery . . . th . . . thing.”  
“I know, love. And I’m so sorry. I can’t help but feel responsible. If I hadn’t brought her into my life . . .”  
Sherlock put his hand on John’s arm. “N . . . nev . . . er . . . you . . . re . . . f . . . f . . . fault. Ne . . . ver.”  
Rosie came back downstairs and John squeezed Sherlock’s hand before he got up to get Rosie’s bath ready.  
Sherlock sat quietly, lost in thought.   
Rosie came running out in her pyjamas to give Sherlock a hug and a kiss. He smiled at her, though the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He hugged her and wished her a good night.  
It was twenty minutes later before John came back down from her bedroom.  
Sherlock was sitting staring out the window, humming quietly under his breath.  
John didn’t think that was good and hurried over to him. “Sherlock, love? You okay?”  
Sherlock didn’t speak, didn’t stop humming.  
John sat down and touched Sherlock’s face. “Love? Please don’t do this. Talk to me, okay?”  
“B . . . b . . . broke.”  
“What’s broke?”  
“M . . . me. Sh . . . Sh . . . er . . . l . . . lock . . . is . . . g . . . gone. I . . . I’m . . . d . . . dead.”  
“Don’t say that.”  
“Sh . . . she . . . k . . . kill . . . ed . . . m . . . me,” Sherlock whispered back, his eyes not meeting John’s.  
“Sherlock, stop it. Stop it now.”  
“A . . . all . . . g . . . gone. H . . . how . . . c . . . can . . . I . . . b . . . be . . . l . . . loved . . . b . . . by . . . J . . . John? N . . . noth . . . ing . . . l . . . lef . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . love. Sh . . . she . . . t . . . took . . . it.”  
“Sherlock, look at me.” John took Sherlock’s face between his hands and turned it to look directly at him. He stared into Sherlock’s eye. “Look at me, Sherlock. Look at me.”  
Sherlock’s eye slowly seemed to focus on John’s eyes. “J . . . J . . . John?”  
“I’m here, love. I’m always and will always be here for you.”  
Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. “T . . . t . . . took . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . away. Sh . . . she . . . t . . . took . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . away . . . J . . . John. T . . . took . . . m . . . me . . . fr . . . from . . . you.”  
John’s throat tightened. In a way, Sherlock was right. She had destroyed part of him. But it didn’t matter. John loved him, no matter what had been lost.  
“It’ll be alright. I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”  
“H . . . how?”  
John blinked, not sure how to answer the question. “I love you because you’re my Sherlock. You still smile at me the way you smile at no one else. You love me. That’s all I need.”  
“I . . . m . . . miss . . . m . . . me,” Sherlock said slowly. “I . . . m . . . miss . . . m . . . my . . . dr . . . dress . . . ing . . . g . . . gowns . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . v . . . vio . . . lin . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . ex . . . per . . . i . . . ments.”  
“I know you do, love. I know I’m not great at keeping you busy. At keeping your mind occupied.”  
“You . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . .know . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . m . . . miss . . . m . . . most?” Sherlock whispered so low John could hardly hear him.  
“What?”  
Sherlock looked down. “My . . . d . . . ded . . . u . . . c . . . tions . . . b . . . be . . . cause . . . I . . . I’ll . . . n . . . nev . . . er . . . g . . . get . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . th . . . that . . . b . . . beau . . . ti . . . ful . . . s . . . smile . . . o . . . of . . . yours . . . a . . . again . . . a . . . and . . . h . . . hear . . . you . . . s . . . say . . . br . . . illi . . . ant . . . or . . . f . . . fan . . . tas . . . tic,” Sherlock sobbed and laid his forehead on John’s shoulder.  
John’s throat felt like it was on fire, and he felt tears trickling down his own face. He gathered Sherlock into his arms and held him while they both cried.  
It was long, long moments later before John controlled himself and pulled away.  
He looked at Sherlock’s splotchy face and wiped the tears from his face. “You are brilliant and fantastic. You always were and always will be,” he said in a scratchy voice.  
“N . . . not . . . r . . . really. N . . . not . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . w . . . was. I . . . I’m . . . l . . . less . . . th . . . than . . . or . . . din . . . ary . . . n . . . now. I . . . don . . . t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . you . . . c . . . can . . . st . . . stand . . . i . . . it.”  
“Let me ask you a question. If it was me. If I was the one hurt, would you love me less? Would you leave?”  
“D . . . don . . . t . . . s . . . say . . . th . . . that. I . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . b . . .bear . . . t . . . to . . . th . . .think . . . o . . . of . . . you . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that.”  
“Would you?”  
“O . . . of . . . c . . . course . . . n . . . not.”  
“Why?”  
“I . . . l . . . love . . . you. You . . . re . . . m . . . my . . . J . . . John.”  
“And you’re my Sherlock. It’s as simple as that. You’re mine and I’m yours. Till death do us part, as they say.”  
Sherlock stared at John, a look of almost childlike wonder on his face. “H . . . how . . . d . . . did . . . I . . . g . . . get . . . s . . .so . . . lu . . . cky . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me?”  
“The same way I got lucky that you’re in love with me. We belong together, you and me.”  
“A . . . al . . . ways.”  
John kissed Sherlock then, pulling him back into his arms. He kissed Sherlock’s lips, his nose, his eyes, tasting salt there. “You’re you. You’ll always be you. Yes, you’re different, but you’re my Sherlock and I’ll always love you.”  
Sherlock smiled then. The smile that only John got to see. It pulled at the scars on his face but it made John’s heart sing to see it.  
John couldn’t help but smile back and he whispered, “Brilliant.”  
Sherlock smiled even wider and reached up to touch John’s face. “I . . . w . . . wan . . . t . . . t . . . to . . . re . . . mem . . . ber . . . th . . . this . . . sm . . . smile . . . al . . . always.”  
“It’s yours. Only yours, love.”  
Sherlock leaned towards John again and kissed him. “W . . . why . . . you . . . p . . . put . . . u . . . up . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . and . . . my . . . c . . . con . . . stant . . . t . . . tears . . . is . . . be . . . yond . . . m . . . me.”  
“You can’t help it. And I don’t mind.”  
“Th . . . the . . . o . . . old . . . m . . . me . . .w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . mor . . . ti . . . fied.”  
“He would. But I don’t think bottling up your emotions is healthy. I’d rather have you share with me then keep everything inside.”  
“R . . . re . . . lly?”  
“Definitely.”  
“W . . . will . . . you . . . d . . . do . . . s . . . some . . .th . . . ing . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me?”  
“Anything.”  
“I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . th . . . this . . . un . . . der . . . c. . . con . . . troll . . . f . . . for . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . s . . . sake. W . . . will . . . you . . . st . . . stay . . . w . . . with . . . m . . .me . . . in . . . my . . . s . . . sess . . . ion . . . w . . . with . . . D . . . Doc . . . tor . . . C . . . Coop . . . er?”  
“Are you sure?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Of course I will. Anything to help you.”  
Sherlock smiled and settled into John’s arms. John covered him up and snuggled in closer.  
“Would you like me to put a fire on?”  
“Th . . . that . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . n . . . nice.”  
John got up and put a fire on before snuggling back next to Sherlock. They sat in silence watching the fire burn.  
“C . . . cozy.”  
“Mmmmm,” John said. “Tea, love?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
John made them each a cup.  
Sherlock sat thinking. He wished with his whole heart that Lestrade would call and they would get to go to a crime scene and solve a great closed-door murder. It hurt to think that John would never compliment him on his mind again. He was trying, and Sherlock loved him for it. He had to stop making John feel bad. “I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
“I love you too.”  
“J . . . John. D . . . did . . . you . . . m . . . mean . . . it . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . s . . . said . . . t . . . till . . . d . . . death . . . d . . . do . . . u . . . us . . . p . . . art?”  
“Of course I did. I’ll always love you. What do you think?”  
“I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . a . . . always.”  
“If I have anything to say about it, we will.”  
“G . . . good.”  
“Have you thought about that? About us being together?”  
“A . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . time. I . . . w . . . want . . . wh . . . what’s . . . b . . . best . . . f . . . for . . . you.”  
“I want you to be happy.”  
“I . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . you.”  
John smiled. “Ready for bed?”  
“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed.  
John got Sherlock ready for bed and got changed himself.  
He got into bed and kissed Sherlock good night. “Love? Can I lay in your arms tonight?”  
Sherlock smiled and nodded as John laid his face against Sherlock’s chest and cuddled in. He felt Sherlock’s arm come around him. He felt Sherlock’s lips on the top of his head.  
When he fell asleep, he felt loved and cared for.  
He woke a few hours later, with Sherlock twisting underneath him.  
“Sherlock, wake up,” he said. “Wake up.”  
Sherlock groaned and continued to twist.   
“Wake up, love,” John said gently.  
Sherlock started awake. “D . . . don . . . t . . . h . . . hur . . . t. D . . . don . . . t . . . h . . . hur . . . t . . . Pl . . . pl . . . please,” he begged.  
“Sherlock! It’s me. It’s John. You’re home. You’re safe.”  
Sherlock looked at John for a few seconds. “J . . . John?”  
“It’s me.”  
“H . . . hurt . . . m . . . me. Th . . . they . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me.”  
“I know they did. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said as he touched Sherlock’s face and squeezed his hand. “You’re home. You’re safe. I’ll never let anyone ever hurt you again.”  
“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . w . . . w . . . woke . . . you.”  
“I’d rather you wake me then suffer like that. Do you want to talk about it?”  
“I . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . ware . . . h . . . house. I . . . w . . . was . . . c . . . call . . . ing . . . f . . . for . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . th . . . they . . . w . . . were . . . l . . . laugh . . . ing.”  
“I’m here. I’m here, love,” he said, pulling Sherlock into his arms.  
“Do . . . n’t . . . l . . . let . . . m . . . me . . . g . . . go,” Sherlock whispered.  
John laid down with Sherlock in his arms. “I promise that you’re safe. That you’ll always be safe.”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Try to go to sleep. Know that I’ll be here for you, okay?”  
Sherlock nodded again.  
They laid quietly until John felt Sherlock relax into sleep.  
If he could do anything, he wanted to be able to keep Sherlock feeling secure and loved. He knew that Sherlock felt scared, felt unworthy, felt that he was dirty and used. And he was trying his best to help him. But he was afraid that the nightmares and flashbacks were there to stay.  
The next afternoon, he made tea right before Dr. Cooper was to come. There was a look of surprise on his face when John sat down next to Sherlock rather than leave.  
“I HAVE ASKED JOHN TO STAY FOR THIS SESSION. WE HAD AN INCIDENT LAST NIGHT, AND I NEED TO KNOW HOW TO CONTROL MYSELF.”  
“What kind of incident?”  
“ROSIE MENTIONED HER MOTHER. I HAD A FLASHBACK AND A BIT OF AN EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN. THEN I WOKE JOHN UP WITH A NIGHTMARE. ROSIE DESERVES TO TALK ABOUT HER MOTHER. I CANNOT ASK HER NOT TO. THAT WOULD NOT BE FAIR.”  
“I take it she knows nothing of what her mother did?”  
“She thinks her mother’s in a mental hospital. She knows we aren’t together anymore and that Sherlock and I are. Some of the children in class are apparently homophobic and said some things to her. That got us talking about her m . . .” John glanced at Sherlock, who visibly winced, “her mother.”  
“Yes. I can see where the very mention of her would upset you, Sherlock.”  
The three of them talked for the next hour about different ways to deal with this, without making Rosie feel she couldn’t talk about her mother at all. Sherlock promised he would let John know when he felt stressed and ready to have a breakdown so John could get Rosie out of the room.   
But one thing Sherlock couldn’t bear was to hear her name. The mere mention of it put him back in the warehouse. In his head, he could feel the pain, hear himself scream, taste blood, see their laughing faces, smell their sweating bodies as they forced themselves into him again and again.  
He remembered when he’d deduced her the first time and had ignored the fact that she was a liar, all because she made John happy. How he had paid and paid and paid for that mistake.  
Only by grabbing onto John’s hand, seeing his concerned face, could he claw his way back from the nightmare that had been his life for those five days. He felt himself shaking, the phantom pain burning through his nervous system, the echoes of his screams in his ears. Only in John’s arms did he feel safe. It was the only place he’d ever feel safe for he knew that John would die to protect him. And that hurt. He had clawed his way back from death to save John and now he was helpless to any threat.  
When the Doctor left, they held each other for a long time.   
“Are you sure you’re okay?”  
“I . . . h . . . hurt . . . a . . . all . . . o . . . over . . . J . . . John. I . . . it’s . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . I’m . . . st . . . still . . . th . . . there.”  
“Phantom pain, like when you feel your fingers and legs. I’m sorry, love.”  
“I . . . c . . . can . . . h . . . hear . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . self . . . sc . . . scr . . . eaming . . . J . . . John.” Sherlock’s breath was coming faster.  
“Calm down. You’ve got to calm down.”  
“You . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . l . . . like . . . J . . . John. H . . . hang . . . ing . . . th . . . there. H . . . help . . . less. A . . . all . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . ed . . . w . . . was . . . you. I . . . want . . . ed . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain . . . t . . . to . . . end. T . . . to . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . she . . . w . . . was . . . pl . . . plan . . . ning . . . it . . . a . . . all . . . wh . . . while . . . sh . . . she . . . s . . . sat . . . h . . . here . . . sm . . . smiling . . . a . . . at . . . m . . . me. I . . . won . . . der . . . if . . . sh . . . she . . . w . . . watch . . . ed? I . . . won . . . der . . . if . . . sh . . . she . . . l . . . laughed . . . wh . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . cri . . . ed . . . f . . . for . . . you?”  
John felt a cold hand twist at his heart. He’d never thought of it, but it was entirely possible that she had done that. It was filmed, so she’d at least seen that. His hatred for her grew into rage. To think she’d done that. And planned it while he spent his time with her — probably laid in bed planning it after he’d fucked her.   
All because Sherlock had loved him. He wanted to tear her to pieces for the pain, the humiliation, and degradation she’d heaped onto Sherlock. To think she’d watched him being tortured, being raped. And Sherlock was probably right. She probably did laugh.  
“She hurt you so much. I’ll never forgive her. How something as beautiful and innocent as Rosie could come from someone so . . . repugnant blows my mind.”  
“Sh . . . she . . . m . . . mus . . . t . . . nev . . . er . . . kn . . . know.”  
“No. It would destroy her. Not even when she’s older. We’ll just have to tell her that her mother died.”  
“Th . . . that . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . best.”  
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I brought her into our lives.”  
“You . . . w . . . were . . . l . . . lonely . . . J . . . John. A . . . and . . . sh . . . she . . . s . . . set . . .o . . . out . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . you. Sh . . . she . . . d . . . did . . . wh . . . what . . . Mor . . . i . . . ar . . . ity . . . w . . . want . . . ed. H . . . he . . . w . . . wan . . . ted . . . t . . .to . . . b . . . burn . . . th . . . the . . . h . . . heart . . . o . . . out . . . o . . . of . . . m . . . me. A . . . and . . . it . . . w . . . work . . . ed. Th . . . that . . . n . . . night . . . a . . . at . . . th . . . the . . . rec . . . ep . . . tion. Wh . . . when . . . I . . . t . . . told . . . you . . . sh . . . she . . . w . . . was . . . preg . . . nant. I . . . real . . . ly . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . I’d . . . l . . . lost . . . you . . . for . . . ever. I . . . w . . . want . . . ed . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . die . . . r . . . right . . . th . . . there. Th . . . that’s . . . wh . . . why . . . I . . . l . . . left . . . ear. . . ly.”  
“I’ve never forgiven myself for that or that I left you alone for so long.”  
“You . . . w . . . were . . . m . . . mar . . . ried . . . a . . . and . . . you . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . sul . . . king.”  
“And you were suffering. And then I found you in that drug den. So of course, I got angry, never considering your feelings.”  
“You . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . f . . . feel . . . th . . . things.”  
“How stupid I was. As you like to say, I saw but I didn’t observe. I never saw the way you looked at me. Molly always said you looked sad when I wasn’t looking. If I’d even suspected . . .”  
“B . . . but you . . . d . . . did . . . n’t. I . . . d . . . did . . . n’t . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . . know. You . . . ‘re . . . the . . . b . . .best . . . m . . . man . . . I . . . kn . . . know. A . . . and . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . af . . . raid . . . you . . . w . . . would . . . l . . . leave . . . f . . . for . . . ever . . . if . . . you . . . kn . . . knew . . . h . . . how . . . I . . . f . . . felt.”  
“Because you loved me? I wouldn’t have left you.”  
“You . . . w . . . were . . . f . . . fir . . . mly . . . het . . . ero . . . th . . . then. You . . . in . . . sis . . . ted . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . n’t . . . g . . . gay. W . . .which . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . n’t . . . af . . . ter . . . a . . . all.”  
“It was all semantics. I wish I hadn’t been so blind. I wish I had let myself feel what I really felt for you. But I was stubborn.”  
“You . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . h . . . hard . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . y . . . your . . . f . . . fath . . . er.”  
“Supressing my sexuality wasn’t the best route to take. I’m so sorry that I’ve hurt you, love. I’ve never meant to.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know. A . . . and . . . I . . . n . . . nev . . . er . . . m . . . meant . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . eith . . . er.” Sherlock looked up at John, feeling his heart warm to see John’s face. “I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”  
“I love you.” John bent his head and kissed Sherlock.  
“Um . . . J . . . John. I . . . h . . . hate . . . t . . . to . . . br . . . break . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . mood . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . n . . . need . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . loo.”  
John smiled and picked Sherlock up. Sherlock hadn’t had an accident in a few days and it made John happy to know he was healing. Sherlock got so embarrassed if he had to have his nappy changed.  
John called in Sam because, even though they were partners, Sherlock didn’t like to let John do for him in the loo.  
Sam carried Sherlock out and put him in his chair.  
Seeing him sitting there made John so happy. He sat down opposite him in his chair.  
“C . . . can . . . I . . . s . . . sit . . . o . . . on . . . y . . . your . . . l . . . lap?”  
“Sure,” John said. He stood up and lifted Sherlock setting down with him in his lap. Sherlock was still too light for his size. He didn’t weigh near enough. “You’ve got to eat more.”  
“I . . . e . . . eat . . . t . . . too . . . m . . . much. You . . . ‘d . . . l . . . like . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . as . . . f . . . fat . . . a . . . as . . . My.”  
John smiled. “You aren’t fat and neither is your brother.”  
Sherlock laid his head against John’s shoulder. “You . . . ‘re . . . s . . . so . . . c . . . cozy.”  
“So are you. So nice and warm. When your therapist comes, I think I’ll run down to the Tesco and get us some fixings for a great supper.”  
Sherlock smiled.  
“What would you like?”  
“A . . . any . . . th . . . thing. You . . . m . . . make . . . g . . . great . . . f . . . food.”  
“How about pork chops?”  
Sherlock nodded.  
“Good.”  
When the speech therapist came, John checked the kitchen and made a quick list before he left. He took a long walk and bought a cup of coffee before sitting in the park for awhile. He took a quick trip to the Tesco and picked up a few things before he returned home.  
“John,” he heard as he walked through the door.  
“Hey, Mrs. Hudson. How are things?”  
“Oh, I’m doing well. How are Rosie and Sherlock?”  
“Rosie’s fine. Sherlock’s about the same. He has good days and bad. Trying to get him to eat tonight. I’ve got to get a few pounds on him.”  
“He’s at least eating more regularly now with you looking after him.”  
“No more days and days without food and sleep at least. Though I can tell he misses it. You know what he told me? When he’d make one of his deductions, I’d call him brilliant. He said he knew that I’d never say it to him again. It made me sad that he notices things like that, that he misses things like that. I forget sometimes that he remembers exactly who he used to be. It would have been a kindness if he didn’t remember.”  
“The poor thing.”  
“He misses who he was, Mrs. Hudson.”  
“Of course, he does. And who can blame him?”  
“I want to take him places, do things with him, but he’s so . . . broken. He doesn’t want to leave the flat.”  
“He’s still in pain, John. He’s still scared. And after all that’s happened to him every time he goes out, I don’t blame him. He’s healing, John, but after everything that he’s suffered, it’s going to take time.”  
“That’s what I keep telling him. I know I’ll never get the old Sherlock back. I know he’ll be different. But I want our life to be a happy one. I love him, and I want him to be happy. I ‘m just so afraid for him right now. I’m afraid he’ll never recover from this.”  
“It’s a lot to recover from.”  
“He’s stronger than I am. And I don’t know if I could survive what he’s gone through.”  
“He’s lived with so much for so long. He needs you, John. He’s needed you since you came into his life. He’s always going to need you. You keep him grounded.”  
“I hope so.”  
They talked for a few minutes more before John went up the lift. The speech therapist was just saying goodbye to Sherlock when he came in.  
Dinner was a family affair as Rosie helped John cook.  
Over the next few days, the dog trainer brought the dog over again and started training with John and Sherlock, even introducing Gladstone to Rosie. She loved him. He was allowed to spend the night, and he and Aurora slept on the end of John and Sherlock’s bed.  
Sherlock’s utensils arrived, and he started using the spoon immediately. Mycroft arranged for a physical therapist to come to help him with the shaking and to start an exercise regime for him. He started with very light weights and sit ups. John helped him once the basic exercises were lined up and helped him to eat. The spoon fit over his hand and Sherlock used it quite well from the beginning. Soup was hard but he managed oatmeal and potatoes. He even managed meat so long as John cut it for him.  
“N . . . now . . . you . . . c . . . can . . . e . . . eat . . . your . . . d . . . din . . . ner . . . in . . .p . . . peace.”  
Dr. Peter Matthews came to see Sherlock and promised he’d do his best on both his face and his chest. He scheduled the surgery to take place in the next two weeks.  
Sherlock seemed happier, knowing the surgery was scheduled. He even agreed to go out with John to the park just for a few minutes, but it was progress.  
Sherlock adjusted to having Gladstone in his life and even seemed to really like the dog.  
“I . . . it’s . . . h . . . hard . . . I . . . st . . . still . . . m . . . miss . . . m . . . my . . . R . . . Red . . . b . . . beard. He . . . u . . . used . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . r . . . room . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind . . . p . . . pal . . . ace. I . . . w . . . went . . . th . . . there . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . up . . . set. N . . . now . . . h . . . he’s . . . g . . . gone . . . t . . . too. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . r . . . rem . . . em . . . ber . . . h . . . him . . . m . . . much.”  
“I’m sorry Sherlock. But you have Gladstone now. It doesn’t make up for losing your source of comfort but he can comfort you now.”  
“I . . . s . . . sup . . . pose.”  
Sherlock rubbed the top of Gladstone’s head. In a way, he was glad to have Gladstone there. He would be great company for when John was busy with Rosie. And at least he’d know he had something to calm him when he got really upset.  
He also liked the idea of having his own utensils. Everything that made him feel more in control and less of a victim. If he could be sure that he could continue to get better. His control over his bowels was becoming better. There was still the occasional accident, but it was getting better. And slowly, very slowly, his speech was becoming better. He may never completely get over the stammering, but he was getting better.  
Sherlock wanted nothing more than for the next few months to go away. He knew there would always be things that he’d need help to do but the more he could do for himself the better.  
John would always be there for him, but he wanted to be as independent as he could. He considered getting a motorized wheelchair to give him just that much more independence. And he meant to eventually go outside. He had promised John. But he wanted to wait until after he’d healed from the surgery.  
Mycroft brought by a disc with the ultrasound of the baby and some pictures. Sherlock could tell John was upset that he was missing things but he knew John couldn’t stand to be around her, even for the length of an ultrasound. Sherlock tried to wish her out of his head. He felt himself beginning to tremble, but he fought the fear down, the sadness. It took awhile, but he managed to bring himself under control.  
He talked with John, admiring the picture, which showed that John was expecting a son. Sherlock congratulated him and asked him if he’d thought of a name yet.  
John brightened up a bit at that. “I think I’d like to call him William, Billy for short.”  
“A . . . af . . . ter . . . m . . . me?” Sherlock asked, incredulous.  
“Of course after you. William John Watson.”   
“I . . . th . . . think . . . th . . . that . . . s . . . sounds . . . g . . . good. Are . . . you . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . tell . . . R . . . Rosie?”  
“Not until closer to when the baby’s coming. I think it would involve a lot more questions about where babies come from then I want to answer right now.”  
Sherlock smiled. “N . . . not . . . th . . . that . . . b . . . brave . . . yet?”  
“Not quite.”  
Sherlock hugged John. “It . . . ‘ll . . . b . . . be . . . al . . . right . . . John. I . . . kn . . . know . . . I . . . can . . . t . . . h . . . help . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . ‘ll . . . d . . . do . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . c . . . can.”  
“I know you will. And I know how much you love our family.”  
“I . . . do. I . . . w . . . want . . . us . . . a . . . all . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . hap . . . py . . . to . . . geth . . . er. I . . . h . . . hope . . . m . . . my . . . st . . . stutt . . . er . . . w . . . will . . . be . . . b . . . bett . . . er . . . by . . . th . . . then. I . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . want . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . baby . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . st . . . utter.”  
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be a wonderful father.”  
“F . . . fath . . . er?” Sherlock asked. “You . . . ‘re . . . th . . . their . . . fath . . . er.”  
“You’re their stepfather after all.”  
“I . . . I’m . . . t . . . touched. Th . . . thank . . . you.”  
John smiled at him. “Of course, you’re part of our family. You’re my love and my life.”  
Sherlock smiled and kissed John. “M . . . my . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life.”  
Sherlock so wanted to do more with John, but he didn’t want to get John heated up and not be able to do anything. It was still a few weeks away from his three-month HIV test. He knew that the chances were 97% sure at the three-month point but he wouldn’t take any chance at all that he’d infect John. They couldn’t do anything. That was possibly dangerous until after the six-month test.  
All Sherlock could think about was that day. That day when they would be together. After the three-month test came back negative, hopefully, he would work with Dr. Cooper to try and get himself ready to have sex without freaking out on John. But he thought they should wait, at least a bit.  
John pulled Sherlock into his arms. “What would I do without you?”  
“You . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . to . . . f . . . find . . . out.”  
John smiled. “You do whatever you can to make me feel better. Thank you, love.”  
“You . . . do . . . the . . . s . . . same . . . f . . . for . . . me.”  
“Guess we’re meant to be together.”  
By the next week, Gladstone was staying with them full-time with the trainer on call in case they had any questions.  
Rosie loved having the dog there. Sherlock gave Rosie an allowance for taking Gladstone for walks (with John) and feeding him.  
Sherlock was getting excited about his operation, while John was growing more and more nervous. He knew that Dr. Matthews was one of the best in the world, but he wasn’t sure that he could fix all of the damage. And Sherlock was depending on it. The scars were deep on Sherlock’s face and chest. He knew Sherlock thought they would fix everything. But Sherlock would be so broken, so disappointed if it didn’t work.  
Sherlock seemed very happy and was even laughing and joking with Rosie and John. He was sure that he’d be able to go outside as soon as he healed.  
John tried to tell him that there could be complications.  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . J . . . John. I . . . kn . . . know . . . a . . . any . . . s . . . sur . . . gery . . . h . . . has . . . r . . . risks.”  
“It may be that you won’t get all of what you’re expecting from the surgery.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . J . . . John. Th . . . ere . . . m . . . may . . . st . . . ill . . . b . . . be . . . sc . . . scars . . . b . . . but . . . the . . . doc . . . tor . . . s . . . said . . . th . . . they’d . . . b . . . be . . . l . . . less. Th . . . that’s . . . o . . . okay. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . k . . . keep . . . my . . . pr . . . omise . . . to . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . out . . . side . . . w . . . with . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . build . . . a . . . l . . . life . . . w . . . with . . . you.”  
“And I want to build a life with you. We’re building a life, you and I, every day. Every single day. I love you. I just don’t want you to put too much hope in this surgery as a cure all for your depression and anxiety.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know . . . it . . . won . . . t. B . . . but . . . I’ll . . . a . . . at . . . l . . . least . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . at . . . my . . . self . . . in . . . the . . . m . . . mirr . . . or. A . . . and . . . at . . . l . . . least . . . you . . . won . . . t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . at . . . th . . . the . . . sc . . . scars . . .o . . . on . . . m . . . my . . . ch . . . chest,” Sherlock whispered the last sentence as he looked down at the floor.  
“Don’t put yourself through pain because of me, love. I don’t like the scars but I don’t want to see you in pain because you think I want them gone.”  
“I . . . wan . . . t . . . th . . . them . . . g . . . gone. It’s . . . a . . . re . . . min . . . der . . . h . . . how . . . m . . . many . . . t . . . times . . . th . . . they . . . r . . . raped . . . m . . . me. I . . . d . . . don . . . t . . . n . . . need . . . re . . . m . . . inders . . . I . . . n . . . need . . . th . . . em . . . g . . . gone . . . J . . . John.”  
“I understand. So long as it’s not just for me. There’s going to be a lot of pain, Sherlock.”  
“I . . . kn . . . know. B . . . but . . . n . . . not . . . as . . . m . . . much . . . a . . . as . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . go . . . got . . . th . . . them.” Sherlock’s eye took on the faraway look that meant he was lost in his head.   
“Stop it, Sherlock. Come back to me,” John said. “Come back to me, love.”  
Sherlock blinked his suddenly full eyes and looked at John. “I . . . it’s . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . w . . . won . . . t . . . g . . . go . . . th . . . there . . . s . . . so . . . of . . . ten. I . . . I’ll . . . n . . . nev . . . er . . . b . . .be . . . f . . . free . . . o . . . of . . . th . . . them . . . b . . . but . . . the . . . l . . . less . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . o . . . of . . . th . . . them . . . the . . . bet . . . ter.”  
“You don’t have to ever worry about them again. They’ve been punished, and they’re stuck in a deep dank prison for the rest of their lives.”  
“I . . . it . . . d . . . does . . . p . . . pay . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . th . . . the . . . B . . . Brit . . . ish . . . gov . . . ern . . . ment . . . a . . . as . . . a . . . bro . . . ther . . . d . . . does . . . n’t . . . it?”  
John smiled. “By times it does.”  
The speech therapist was coming to the hospital to work with him as he recovered and the physical therapist had given Sherlock a series of exercises to do with his hands as he recovered. And of course, Dr. Cooper would see him once he had recovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooooo sorry for not updating in so long. I've been re-writing and re-conceptualizing this part of the story and it's been slow going. I know this chapter isn't as long as the others but i wanted to post something and not wait. Hope you enjoy it.

The day of the surgery dawned clear and bright. Rosie made a special point of saying goodbye to Sherlock and wishing him luck. She hugged him and kissed his cheek.

“You’ll be alright, won’t you, Uncle Sherlock?”

“D . . . don . . . t . . . w . . . worry. I’ll . . . be . . . f . . . fine. I . . . pr . . . promise. I’ll . . . be . . . h . . . home . . . s . . . soon.”

The little girl smiled at him. “I’ll take care of Gladstone for you.”

“G . . . good. M . . . make . . . s . . . sure . . . to . . . w . . . walk . . . h . . . him.”

“I will.”

John had arranged for Rosie to stay with Mrs. Hudson after school. Sherlock had insisted that John was coming home that night and that he’d be fine by himself. He imagined he’d be home in the next day or two, depending on how the surgery went. Given his hatred of hospitals, the sooner the better. 

John and Sherlock went down to hail a cab, Sherlock’s bag over John’s shoulder, when one of Mycroft’s black sedans pulled up and Mycroft got out.

“Thought you could use a lift.”

They drove in companionable silence t o the hospital. Sherlock was nervous, tightly clutching John’s hand.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” John asked as they pulled up to the hospital. “You don’t have to go through with this, you know. We can go home.”

“N . . . no. I’m . . . r . . . ready.”

John got him out and into his wheelchair. They went to check in. All three went back to the rooms outside the surgical suites, and John helped Sherlock get undressed and into a hospital gown.

Dr. Matthews popped his head in and told them it wouldn’t be long. There had been a car collision and the suite they were to use was tied up but not for much longer.

John held Sherlock’s, by now, shaking hand.

“J . . . John . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . legs . . . are . . . c . . . cold.”

John knew Sherlock was more concerned that people walking by would see his poor, mutilated legs rather than being cold but he excused himself to get a heated blanket for him.

When he returned, Mycroft and Sherlock were engaged in a whispered conversation, which they immediately ceased when they saw John.

“Keeping secrets?” he asked as he spread the blanket over Sherlock.

“N . . . no. I . . . j . . . just . . . m . . . made . . . My . . . pr . . . promise . . . to . . . t . . . take . . . c . . . care . . . of . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . the . . . k . . . kids . . . if . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . h . . . happens.”

John felt tears filling his eyes. Even now, Sherlock was thinking of him more than he was thinking about himself.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said in a thick voice. “Think about yourself. Think about what it will be like with your face the way it was. Think how excited you’ll be.”

“If it . . . w . . . works.”

“I have faith enough for us both right now.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. He had his doubts, now that the day had arrived. But he would have to keep his promise to John no matter what happened.

The nurses came for Sherlock soon after.

John bent down and kissed Sherlock on the lips. “Don’t worry, love,” he said quietly. “I’ll be there when you wake up.” John squeezed his hand.

“So will I, Little Brother. You’re in excellent hands. I promise you that.”

John walked beside Sherlock as they wheeled him towards the operating suite. When they got to the door, he bent down again and kissed his forehead. “See you soon, love.”

“I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

“I love you too.”

Sherlock watched John’s smiling face until the doors closed. He was inundated with the bright lights of the surgery. Everything seemed entirely too white. Two orderlies gently lifted Sherlock from the bed onto the operating table and took away the blanket.

Sherlock felt embarrassed for them to see his mutilated legs and hands. But they worked in a hospital and had probably seen worse.

As they put a shunt in the back of his hand, he knew that this was it. As the cold liquid moved up his arm, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he woke, he felt pain in his face and chest, but it wasn’t overwhelming. He had to be on some sort of pain medication in addition to the meds he was already on. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was still very groggy and realized he must still be in the recovery room. His left eye felt funny. He soon realized they had probably removed his artificial eye to do the operation.

He tried to move to feel his chest but the slight movement caused pain to flash through him and he moaned.

“Ah, you’re awake, Mr. Holmes. Good,” the nurse said. “Having some pain?”

“Yes.”

“Scale of 1 to 10?”

“S . . . six.”

“That’s not bad at all. I can give you a little more pain reliever but not much more.”

She came back a few minutes later and injected something into his IV. “We’ll be taking you up to your room now. I understand you’ve got visitors.”

“My . . . br . . . brother . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . part . . . ner.”

“What does your partner do?”

“D . . . doctor.”

“Good for you. Any kids?”

“He . . . has . . . a . . . daugh . . . ter . . . a . . . and . . . a . . . s . . . son . . . on . . . the . . . w . . . way.”

“Nice little family you’ve got. You’re a lucky man.”

“I . . . kn . . . know.”

They wheeled Sherlock into his room. Mycroft and John were indeed waiting for him. After they finished transferring him to the bed, John took his hand.

“How’re you feeling? Much pain?”

“No.”

“Good for you,” the nurse said, patting Sherlock’s arm.

When she left, John looked at Sherlock puzzled. “What was that about?”

“A . . . pparent . . . ly . . . she . . . th . . . thinks . . . you . . . ‘re . . . c . . . cute. A . . . and . . . I’m . . . a . . . l . . . lucky . . . m . . . man.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong about that,” John said, smiling. “How do you feel?”

“A . . . b . . . bit . . . out . . . of . . . it.”

“Dr. Matthews was by earlier. He said the surgery went very well. The scars should heal nicely.”

“R . . . really?”

“I told you he was the best, Brother Mine,” Mycroft said.

“D . . . did . . . h . . . he . . . s . . . say . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . go . . . h . . . home?”

“You’ve just come from the recovery room and you’re doped to the gills. Give it a little time. He’ll want to keep you at least long enough to make sure you don’t get an infection or have a reaction of some kind. You’re still on oxygen for Heaven’s sake,” John said.

It was only then that Sherlock realized there was an oxygen canula in his nose. He also realized he was definitely out of it.

“To . . . morrow?”

John laughed. “Maybe. Depending on how good you are.”

Sherlock knew he couldn’t smile or even laugh. Both would hurt. His face felt a bit numb but he didn’t want to touch the bandages down the left side of his face and from his mouth to his ear on the right. 

He was bare-chested and could feel the bandages. In fact, if truth were to be told, he was naked, and he felt very vulnerable. “J . . . John . . . c . . . could . . . you . . . f . . . find . . . my . . . n . . . nappy? I . . . f . . . feel . . . a . . . bit . . . ov . . .er . . . exposed.”

“Sure, love. I’ll get out your sleep trousers too. They’ll probably want you to wear a hospital gown so I’ll get you one.”

He hoped that Mycroft would have the good manners to leave the room rather than see his little brother diapered like a baby. 

John returned with a gown and rummaged around in Sherlock’s bag for his nappy, sleeping trousers, and heavy socks. Thankfully Mycroft stepped out of the room to make a call.

Sherlock hated that John had to see him this way, had to do this for him. He purposefully avoided John’s eyes, embarrassed beyond words.

“It’s alright, love. I know you don’t like this. But it won’t be long now. You’re getting better all the time.” John helped him on with his trousers and socks before sitting him up and helping him put on the gown.

It pulled at his stitches and he felt like his chest was on fire just for a few minutes before John laid him back down and kissed him on the forehead.

“I . . . s . . . suppose . . . no . . . r . . . real . . . kisses . . . u . . . until . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . face . . . h . . . heals.”

“No. You’ve got to be careful not to get infections, and the human mouth contains all sorts of germs.”

“Even . . . yours?”

“Even mine,” John said smiling. He pulled the covers up and tucked Sherlock in.

“I . . . s . . . suppose . . . they . . . sh . . . shaved . . . m . . . my . . . ch . . . chest . . . h . . . hair. It’ll . . . b . . . be . . . it . . . chy . . . wh . . . when . . . it . . . gr . . . grows . . . b . . . back.”

“Maybe you could shave it all the time?”

“Why? D . . . don’t . . . you . . . l . . . like . . . it?”

“No, I love it. It’s just an option.”

“G . . . given . . . h . . . how . . . m . . . much . . . My . . . t . . . teased . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . not . . . h . . . having . . . as . . . m . . . much . . . as . . . h . . . him . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . I’ll . . . k . . . keep . . . it.”

“Really? He teased you about that? Wonder what he’d say to me? I’ve just got a few hairs here and there on my chest.”

“B . . . but . . . th . . . they’re . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . lovely.” Sherlock was trying hard not to smile.

“Don’t make fun of me, you. And no smiling.”

“Not . . . m . . . making . . . f . . . fun. I . . . th . . . think . . . they . . . are . . . l . . . lovely. R . . . rare . . . b . . . but . . . val . . . uable . . . as . . . g . . . gold.” Sherlock reached out and touched John’s chest. “C . . . can . . . t . . . w . . . wait . . . to . . . l . . . lick . . . th . . . them.”

John turned red as he felt a flash of heat head directly to his groin. “Sherlock! Behave.”

“Nev . . . er.” Sherlock’s hand found John’s and he pulled it to his chest. “O . . . one . . . d . . . day . . . you . . . c . . . can . . . count . . . m . . . mine . . . if . . . you . . . w . . . want.”

John smiled. “Deal.”

They both looked up with the doctor and Mycroft came through the door. 

“Mr. Holmes. Good to see you awake. The pain is manageable?”

“I . . . f . . . feel . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . out . . . of . . . it. Occ . . . asion . . . ally . . . i . . . it . . . c . . . catches . . . if . . . I . . . m . . .move . . . wr . . . wrong.”

“As it probably will for awhile. You need to take it easy. And you need to keep from smiling or moving your face too much. For awhile at least. The surgery went very well. I think you’ll be very pleased once the incisions heal.”

“H . . . how . . . l . . . long?”

“It won’t be very long. We’ll keep you in and make sure you’re healing alright for a few days and you can go home. I understand you have medical personnel at home?”

“Yes. I . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . n . . . nurse . . . and . . . J . . . John.”

“Of course. You need to get some rest now. I’ll make sure to stop by and see you later. Let the nurses know if your pain gets worse.”

By dinner time, Sherlock was starting to feel the pain well up in him again.

“J . . . John. It . . . h . . . hurts . . . a . . . again.

“It’s too early for another shot, Sherlock. You know you can’t have another until morning.”

“B . . . but . . . it . . . h . . . hurts.”

“Maybe a bit more.” John called for the nurse. She’d been given instructions to give Sherlock only a bit more of the medication.

The pain eased a little but not nearly enough. Sweat broke out on Sherlock’s forehead, and tears blurred his vision.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” John asked as he took Sherlock’s hand.

“It . . . is.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand hard enough that John winced. “M . . . my . . . f . . . fault. I . . . w . . . wanted . . . this. I . . . h . . . have . . . to . . . d . . . deal . . . w . . . with . . . the . . . p . . . pain.”

“Where’s it worst?”

“My . . . f . . . face . . . f . . . feels . . . l . . . like . . . it’s . . . o . . . on . . . f . . . fire.”

“Try not to talk. I brought your computer. We can talk with it.”

“I PROBABLY OVERDID IT TALKING. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER.”

“Why don’t we use this until the doctor says it’s okay or your face feels better?”

“ALRIGHT.” The pain was still there. Was still throbbing in his face and across his chest.

When the doctor returned a few hours later, Sherlock was groaning low in his throat.

“He’s in a lot of pain right now,” John told the doctor, “and we’ve used the maximum amount of pain meds he’s allowed.”

“The experimental pain meds?”

John nodded.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing else we can do. We don’t want to risk an overdose. We can make him as comfortable as we can. Perhaps some sleeping pills?”

Sherlock nodded.

Over the next two days, Sherlock was kept sedated on and off until the pain became more manageable.

John returned home at night to spend the evening with Rosie. He’d return as soon as he got her off to school.

By the third day, the pain was bearable, and Sherlock felt much better. The doctor wanted to keep him another day or two, but he insisted on going home since he had a doctor and full-time nurse waiting for him.

“Don’t talk too much,” the doctor said. “And take your meds. We want to avoid infection.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. 

Over the next week, John looked after Sherlock, keeping the wounds clean. They were healing very nicely, and John was sure Sherlock would be pleased. There might still be slight scars but nothing like there had been. And the scars on his chest were gone except for the end of one long streak. And it was healing. Sherlock often stroked his smooth chest, amazed at the result.

When the doctor came by to check on his face, he was very happy with the results and promised that the swelling and bruising should soon go down. He took the bandages off and asked John to keep Sherlock’s face clean.

The doctor came again a week later. John had been telling Sherlock to look in the mirror, but he wanted to wait. Dr. Matthews okayed the results, but Sherlock wanted to wait until he left before looking in the mirror. 

Sherlock thanked Dr. Matthews profusely as John showed him out.

John returned, a plastic bag in his hand. “I bought a new mirror at Tesco’s. We can put it up here in the bedroom.”

“I’m . . . r . . . really . . . n . . . ner . . . vous,” Sherlock said as John unwrapped the mirror.

“You don’t need to be, love. You look so handsome.”

“L . . . let . . . m . . . me . . . see.”

John brought the mirror over and leaned over to kiss Sherlock on the forehead before he handed the mirror to Sherlock.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. He gasped. The swelling was gone and the bruises had faded. There was one faint line but otherwise it was his face again.

“It’s . . . m . . . me,” he whispered as tears came to his eyes. The mirror was shaking as he reached up and traced the subtle line.

“He did a fantastic job. You’re your old handsome self again,” John said. He sat down beside Sherlock and pulled him into his arms.

“I . . . l . . . look . . . l . . . like . . . me . . . a . . . gain.”

John kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Let’s celebrate.”

“Wh . . . what . . . sh . . . should . . . we . . . do?”

“Takeaway? Cosy night by the fire?”

“S . . . sounds . . . l . . . like . . . heaven.”

When Rosie came home, she told Sherlock how good he looked. “You look just like I remember you,” she said, smiling. 

Sherlock thanked her and the three enjoyed their evening together.

A few days later, John drew the blood for Sherlock’s three-month HIV test. When it came back negative, the two celebrated with a long kiss.

John wanted more but knew better than to ask. He longed for a long night of getting to know Sherlock’s body, his reactions, the sounds he would make. He wanted to gently make love to the man he loved and show him how sex should be between two people who love each other.

But Sherlock was adamant. Nothing would change his mind. He wouldn’t take the risk of moving beyond kissing right now.

Sherlock discussed it with Dr. Cooper.

“I . . . w . . . want . . . John . . . so . . . m . . . much. I’m . . . j . . . just . . . so . . . a . . . afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Th . . . that . . . I’ll . . . r . . . ruin . . . it.”

“How?”

“F . . . flash . . . b . . . back . . . or . . . an . . . xiety . . . a . . . attack. I . . . know . . . h . . . he’d . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . hurt . . . me. It’s . . . John. I . . . tr . . . trust . . . h . . . him. B . . . but . . . I’m . . . sc . . . scared . . . th . . . there . . . are . . . th . . . things . . . I . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . do . . . even . . . w . . . with . . . John.”

“Like penetrative and oral sex?”

Sherlock nodded, his face turning red. “I’ve . . . n . . . never . . . d . . . done . . . th . . .them . . . con . . . scen . . . sually . . . b . . . before. And . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . I . . . imagine . . . John . . . w . . . would . . . w . . . want . . . to . . . b . . . bottom. And . . . I’m . . . m . . . most . . . af . . . raid . . . th . . . that . . . he’ll . . . h . . . hold . . . b . . . back . . . so . . . h . . .he . . . w . . .won’t . . . h . . . hurt . . . me. I’m . . . a . . . afraid . . . h . . . he . . . won’t . . . en . . . joy . . . it.”

“You’re afraid he’ll overcompensate?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay. You have a lot of concerns, and all are understandable. You’ve got three more months to work on them. First of all, you and John need to talk. I’d suggest that the two of you look at a book on sex positions and discuss them. There are more ways to have sex then penetration after all. How about frottage or just using hands?”

“S . . . some . . . t . . . times . . . they . . . th . . . thought . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . f . . . funny . . . to . . . f . . . force . . . me . . . to . . . or . . . gasm . . . so . . . th . . . they . . . u . . . used . . . th . . . their . . . h . . . hands.”

“One thing I suggest is that you always, at least until you’re used to it, do any sex facing each other. It would be easier on you to be able to see John’s face. You should keep your eyes on him at all times, and don’t be afraid to tell him to stop if it gets overwhelming.

“But all this is months away yet. You need the talk first and I suggest the two of you start touching other more. At least more than holding each other. None of it needs to be sexual. I suggest that you touch him in the places you’re comfortable being touched and he can touch you in the same way. You can gradually work your way into touching each other erotically.

“But you need to have the talk first.”

Sherlock agreed.

After Dr. Cooper left, Sherlock told John what they had talked about. 

John agreed that they needed to talk about it. He said he’d find a book that the two of them could look at together. They could also look at videos online. “But I agree with Dr. Cooper. We really need to talk about setting boundaries and limits.”

“Th . . . that’s . . . wh . . . what . . . I’m . . . a . . . afraid . . . of.”

“Why would you be afraid of limits?”

“I’m . . . a . . . afraid . . . of . . . you . . . h . . . holding . . . b . . . back . . . b . . . because . . . you’ll . . . be . . . a . . . afraid . . . of . . . tr . . . trigg . . . erring . . . me. I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . to . . . en . . . joy . . . it. L . . . look . . . at . . . wh . . . what . . . we’re . . . doing. Pl . . . planning . . . all . . . of . . . it. N . . . no . . . spon . . . tan . . . aity. Be . . . because . . . of . . . m . . . me. I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . John.” Sherlock looked up at John, tears of frustration shining in his eyes.

“Oh, love,” John said as he cupped that perfect face in his hands. “It’s not just because of what happened. I’d want to ask you about it even if it had never happened. You’ve never had sex before. This way we’ll know what we want. And we can always move in different directions. No two people make love in exactly the same way. Everyone has their own ways they like best. Things they don’t like. We’re just working that out now.”

“But . . . th . . . they . . . did . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . ruin . . . it. I . . . w . . . won’t . . . be . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . pen . . . etrat . . . ive . . . s . . . sex . . . w . . . with . . . you. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . if . . . I . . . e . . . ever . . . c . . . can. M . . . maybe . . . o . . . oral . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know.”

“I don’t want to push you into something you aren’t ready for.”

“B . . . but . . . if . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . n’t . . . f . . . for . . . them . . . w . . . we . . . would . . . n’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . wait . . . and . . . m . . . miss . . . out . . . on . . . th . . . things.” Sherlock was upset, and his speech got worse when he was upset. 

“It’s okay,” John said, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s arm. “It’s alright, love. Don’t worry.”

“Th . . . they . . . r . . . ruined . . . o . . . our . . . f . . . first . . . t . . . time. You . . . w . . . won’t . . . e . . . enjoy . . . it. I . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . w . . . won’t. I . . . I’m . . . sc . . . scared . . . J . . . John,” he whispered, staring down at his lap.

“Why?”

“Y . . . you’ll . . . g . . . get . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . b . . . baby . . . ing . . . m . . . me. You . . . w . . . want . . . a . . . l . . . lover . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . me.”

John took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “I want you and whatever you can give me. I love you, Sherlock. If we can never have sex, that’s okay. It’s enough to know that you love me.”

“Y . . . you’re . . . a . . . v . . . very . . . s . . . sex . . . ual . . . p . . . person . . . J . . . John. It . . . w . . . would . . . n’t . . . b . . . be . . . enough. I w . . . want . . . you. S . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much. R . . . right . . . h . . . here . . . and . . . n . . . now. B . . . but . . . w . . . we . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . wait. Th . . . three . . . m . . . more . . . m . . . months. I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . enjoy . . . s . . . sex. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hold . . . y . . . you . . . b . . . back.”

“Anything with you is enough, love. Anything.”

“B . . . but . . . you . . . c . . . can’t . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . h . . . haven’t . . . th . . . thought . . . of . . . h . . . having . . . pen . . . etrive . . . s . . . sex . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me.”

It was true. Ever since he’d accepted that he loved Sherlock, and even before if he was completely honest with himself, he’d daydreamed about slowly slipping into the tight heat of Sherlock’s body, of bringing him to orgasm, of doing everything he could to push Sherlock over the edge. Even thinking of it for just that moment, he felt his penis twitch with interest.

“I won’t lie to you. Of course, I’ve thought about it. And it breaks my heart to know that they forced you. Your first time should have been with someone you loved. And when we make love, in every way that matters, it will be your first time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sp . . . spare . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that. I . . . kn . . . know . . . I’m . . . d . . . dirty . . . and . . . d . . . disgusting . . . a . . . after . . . w . . . what . . . th . . . they . . . d . . . did.”

John looked at Sherlock in shock. “Of course, you aren’t! You aren’t dirty and disgusting. They forced you to, Sherlock. You didn’t want what they did to you.”

“N . . . no,” Sherlock whispered, looking down at his hands. “I . . . w . . . wanted . . . you. She . . . kn . . . knew . . . th . . . that. Th . . . that’s . . . why . . . sh . . . she . . . h . . . had . . . them . . . d . . . do . . . it. T . . . to . . . p . . . punish . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . w . . . wanting . . . you. F . . . for . . . l . . . loving . . . you.”

“I . . . I know that’s why she did it. And I’m so, so sorry, Sherlock. If I hadn’t brought her into our lives, we would be okay now. You’d be okay.” 

“If . . . I . . . hadn’t . . . l . . . left . . . f . . . for . . . t . . . two . . . years, you . . . prob . . . ably . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . met . . . her.” 

“It’s not your fault. Don’t say that.”

“It’s . . . n . . . not . . . yours . . . either. B . . . besides . . . w . . . without . . . h . . . her, you . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . R . . . Rosie . . . n . . . now . . . would . . . you? Or . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . baby.”

“No. I probably wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t change that. Sherlock, you were hurt. And you’re still suffering. I wish I could say that It’ll all go away someday but you and I both know I’d be lying. It’s going to stay with you. But there’ll be ways to forget for awhile, to be happy. And I’ll be here to help you. You know that.”

John reached out and pulled a gently weeping Sherlock into his arms. “I love you. I wish I could make it all go away. I wish I could take it on myself. I would in a second, you know.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. B . . . but . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . n . . . never . . . w . . . wish . . . th . . . this . . . on . . . any . . . one. E . . . esp . . . ecially . . . n . . . not . . . you. I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . weak.” 

“You aren’t weak. Anyone else would have given up by now.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . st . . . strong.”

“You are. I’d have long ago broke down.”

“I . . . h . . . have. S . . . several . . . t . . . times.”

“But you’re trying. You’re trying so hard to get well. I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s . . . f . . . for . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . bet . . . ter . . . f . . . for . . . you . . . f . . . for . . . us.”

“And for you. You need to want to get well for yourself.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . b . . . being . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this. O . . . over . . . em . . . emotional, . . . cr . . . crying . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . time. Th . . . the . . . old . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . c . . . com . . . plete . . . ly . . . d . . . dis . . . gusted,” he whispered.

“You can’t help that, love. It’s part of the brain damage. It’s good to get those feelings out. You’ve suffered so, so much. I don’t want you to suffer anymore. I’m going to make it my mission to ensure that.”

“M . . . my . . . J . . . John.”

“Always,” he said as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. He meant every word. On his watch, no one would ever hurt Sherlock again, especially not John himself. He’d done so much to hurt him in the past, he felt guilt over every unkind word, every time he’d erupted in anger, every time he’d hit Sherlock. Abandoning him had been the worst thing he’d done, and he’d done it twice. All for a man who loved him more than anyone on the planet, but never even asked John to love him back because he felt unworthy of him.

He squeezed Sherlock tightly, feeling scared about how close he’d come to losing him. A searing hatred for Mary flared in his chest. That she had destroyed Sherlock in so many ways in the name of jealousy. John wanted her destroyed as well. But he knew he’d never be able to do it himself. She was Rosie’s mother. How could he look Rosie, and the new baby, in the eye if he hurt their mother?

No . . . this he would leave to Mycroft. He didn’t even want to know what Mycroft had in mind. He knew, after seeing what he’d done to the men who had hurt Sherlock, that it wouldn’t be anything good. John planned to never see her again. But he knew he couldn’t keep lying to Rosie. One day, he’d tell her that Mary had gotten sick and died. It wasn’t fair to Rosie to have her live with what Mary had done. And the new baby wasn’t even born yet. 

John couldn’t deny to himself that those had been good times. He’d been happy with Mary. They’d had a passionate affair before he asked her to marry him. After Rosie was born, they’d hit a rough patch, and he had almost strayed but then Mary nearly died saving Sherlock, oddly enough. He’d often wondered why she’d saved him. To make him suffer later, had been his conclusion.

To think that all that hate had lived behind those eyes that he’d loved, that he’d seen full of love for him and for Rosie. How that perfect mouth that had smiled a certain way for him and him alone had ordered the torture, maiming, and rape of Sherlock, a man she claimed as a friend. 

The man that was shivering in John’s arms, overcome by emotion. No longer the man he was. The cool, calm exterior that had been was gone, vanished. Now Sherlock’s hard eyes had grown soft, reflecting every emotion that he had, including the love he felt for John.

John squeezed him tighter, afraid somehow that Sherlock would be snatched away from him. They had wasted so much time that they could have been together. John didn’t want to miss another moment. 

“Let me make you some tea, love,” John said. “It’ll warm you up.”

“A . . . alright.”

Instead of leaving Sherlock, he put him in his wheelchair and took him with him to the kitchen.

“How about a biscuit too? Mrs. Hudson brought some up while you were in your session.”

Sherlock nodded, a faint smile playing across his lips.

John handed him the biscuit, but his hands refused to hold it tight enough. Sherlock’s face turned scarlet, and he dropped his hands into his lap. His gaze followed them. His hands were shaking.

“It’s alright,” John whispered. “Don’t worry about it.” He waited while the water boiled and quickly made the tea before sitting down next to Sherlock. He reached out and touched his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“I . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . helpless. C . . . can’t . . . e . . . even . . . h . . . hold . . . a . . . b . . . biscuit.”

“You’re upset. You can hold other things fine.”

He looked up as Gladstone walked over and laid his head on Sherlock’s lap. That wasn’t good. Gladstone was sensing Sherlock’s tension getting out of control. He could have a meltdown if John didn’t do something.

“It’s okay. It’s alright. Look at me,” John said.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked up to John’s and then back down to his hands. “S . . . n . . . not . . . al . . . right. I . . . I’m . . . u . . . useless,” he whispered. “I . . . I’m . . . u . . . useless . . . J . . . John.”

“Never. Don’t say things like that. You’re not useless.”

“W . . . what . . . .am . . . I . . . g . . . good . . . f . . . for?” Sherlock asked, his voice rising in volume. “N . . . n . . . nothing.” His voice was wavering as large tears filled his eyes and crept down his cheeks. “A . . . a . . . and . . . th . . . there . . . g . . . go . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . water . . . w . . . works. G . . . get . . . u . . . upset . . . an . . . and . . . c . . . cry.” 

“It’s alright to cry. You’re upset. You’re allowed to cry when you’re upset.”

Gladstone was nosing Sherlock’s hands.

“Pet him,” John was thinking. “Pet Gladstone.”

“I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . .” Sherlock looked at John and John winced seeing the panic and helplessness on Sherlock’s face as he was shutting down, unable to find the words.

John grabbed his hands and put them on his own cheeks.

“You’re here with me. Look at me, Sherlock. You’re here. You’re safe. No one can hurt you. You don’t need your words with me. Just look at me.” He could feel Sherlock shaking as Gladstone whined and put his foot up on Sherlock’s lap. “Feel me. I’m here. I’m here with you. So’s Gladstone. It’s okay.”

“N . . . n . . . n . . . n . . . n . . .” Sherlock tried to speak, his eyes turning cloudy. “N . . . n . . . n . . . n . . .”

“Take a breath. Take a breath. Your heart’s beating too fast. You have to calm down. Breathe with me.” Sherlock struggled but the rapid shallow breaths began to slow. He could almost see Sherlock’s heart beating in his chest.

“N . . . n . . . n . . . no . . . i . . . it’s . . . n . . . n . . . n . . . not. I . . . h . . . h . . . h . . . hate . . . b . . . be . . . ing . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this,” he got out haltingly from between clenched teeth.

“Breathe, breathe with me, love,” John said.

Sherlock’s breath eased and John could feel his heart slowing. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“I’m here, love. I’m here. You’re alright. You’re safe.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . s . . . s . . . sorry.”

“You’ve absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“G . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . ting . . . s . . . s . . . so . . . u . . . up . . . set . . . o . . . o . . . over . . . a . . . b . . . b . . . bis . . . cuit. Th . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . old . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . w . . . would . . . d . . . die . . . of . . . m . . . m . . . mor . . . t . . . ifc . . . ation.”

“Getting frustrated is alright.”

“B . . . b . . . but . . . a . . . m . . . m . . . melt . . . d . . . down . . . o . . . o . . . over . . . a . . . b . . . b . . . biscuit?”

“Because your hands weren’t working right. I’d get frustrated too. Here, have a drink of tea.” John held up the sippy cup. 

Sherlock reached out with his still-trembling hands and was able to hold onto it enough to take a drink.

“Th . . . thanks . . . f . . . for . . . n . . . not . . . g . . . get . . . ting . . . f . . . rus . . . trated . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me.”

“Never,” John said as he kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock set down the cup and ruffled his fingers through Gladstone’s fur. “A . . . a . . . and . . . th . . . thanks . . . t . . . to . . . you . . .t . . . too.”

Gladstone looked up at him with his deep brown eyes and Sherlock smiled.

John smiled too, relieved that Sherlock was okay. He dipped a biscuit in his tea and held it out for Sherlock, who took a bite.

“G . . . good,” he said around a mouthful of biscuit.

“Mrs. Hudson never disappoints,” John said, as he popped the rest into Sherlock’s mouth and got one of his own.

As if on cue, the lift engaged and Mrs. Hudson came into the flat.

“How are my boys this afternoon?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Enjoying your biscuits,” John said.

“Th . . . they’re . . . g . . . good,” Sherlock said.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “I thought I’d come up and keep you company.”

The trio talked, watched telly, and played games until Rosie came home. John kept an eye on Sherlock, but he seemed to have recovered from the afternoon’s excitement. Mrs. Hudson made them all dinner before she retired downstairs.

John helped Rosie with her homework as Sherlock sat quietly on the sofa, looking out the window, deep in thought. John almost expected Sherlock to steeple his fingers as he used to when he thought, but Sherlock either wasn’t going to or was too self conscious to do it.

He got Rosie into the bath and came out to ask Sherlock if he was alright.

“F . . . fine,” he whispered in a strangled voice.

“That’s not what It sounds like. What’s wrong?”

“N . . . n . . . noth . . . ing.” That word was no more believable than fine had been. There were no tears on Sherlock’s face, but he was shivering, obviously wrestling to control his emotions.

“Don’t fight it, love,” John said. “Don’t fight your emotions. There’s no need to with me.”

“C . . . c . . . c . . . con . . . troll. N . . . n . . . n . . . need . . . c . . . c . . . con . . . troll.”

“Not with me.”

“Papa!” Rosie called from the loo.

“Coming!” He turned back to Sherlock. “I’ll be back as soon as I get her to bed.”

“D . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . h . . . hurry . . . b . . . b . . . because . . . o . . . of . . . m . . . m . . . me,” Sherlock whispered. 

John hated the discouraged note in Sherlock’s voice.

“I . . . m . . . m . . . mean . . . i . . . it. I . . . t . . . take . . . you . . . a . . . away . . . f . . . f . . . from . . . R . . . R . . . Rosie . . . t . . . t . . . too . . . m . . . m . . . much.”

John stared down at him.

“Papa!”

He turned and disappeared into the loo to wash his daughter’s hair. When she was dressed cozily in her pyjamas, she ran out and hugged her cat then Gladstone and crawled up beside Sherlock.

“Why are you sad, Uncle Sherlock?” she asked. 

Sherlock looked down at the girl, seemingly unsurprised that she had guessed his mood. “N . . . n . . . noth . . . ing . . . b . . . b . . . bad,” he said quietly.

“That’s good. Don’t be sad. You have Papa and me here. And Mrs. Hudson and Greg and Molly and Uncle Mycroft and your mummy and daddy. And Gladstone and Aurora. Papa told me you even have a fan club. That’s really, really neat.”

Sherlock half smiled at her. “I . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . a . . .f . . . f . . . fan . . . cl . . . club . . . a . . . any . . . more.”

“You did though. I’ve never known anyone with a fan club before.”

“G . . . g . . . get . . . P . . . P . . . Papa . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . read . . . you . . . a . . . n . . . n ice . . . l . . . long . . . st . . . story . . . t . . . to . . . night.”

“Sherlock . . .” John said.

“Yeah! Maybe we can start the new book on the Wizard of Oz.”

“E . . . e . . . enjoy . . . i . . . it.”

She kissed Sherlock’s cheek and ran to her father, tugging him towards the lift.

As soon as the lift doors shut, Sherlock let out a long, ragged sigh. He called for his nurse and asked him to help him get ready for bed. He knew John would want to talk, and he honestly hadn’t the strength right now.

By the time he was in bed, and had taken his pills, he could hear John moving upstairs. There was no way he could feign believable sleep now.

He heard the lift engage and sat up, knowing John wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Sherlock’s whole body ached. He felt cold and wanted nothing more than to be laying in John’s arms, but he knew John knew something was wrong. He didn’t want to go into it. His head hurt, and he could feel emotions churning around, ready to leak out at any moment.

John came in and turned on the light.

“I . . . is . . . R . . . Rosie . . . a . . . asleep?”

“Almost. What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . talk . . . J . . . John. I . . . I’m . . . t . . . tired . . . a . . . and . . . I . . . h . . . hurt . . . a . . . all . . . o . . . over.”

John felt his forehead. “You feel a bit warm.” He disappeared into the loo and came back with the thermometer. He stuck it into Sherlock’s ear for a moment. “Mmmm,” he said, consulting it. “Slight temperature. I hope you aren’t coming down with something.”

“J . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . fuss . . . t . . . today.”

“I thought that was over. Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

“I . . . I . . . c . . . c . . . can’t. I . . . it’s . . . s . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . you’ll . . . j . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . deny . . . a . . . and . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . a . . . a . . . angry . . . w . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . about.”

“I wouldn’t get angry. Tell me, Sherlock. I know you’re hurting. Did I do something to upset you?”

“N . . . n . . . no. N . . . n . . . never. I . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . sl . . . sl . . . sleep.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“You . . . you’re . . . g . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . g . . . get . . . t . . . t . . . tired . . . o . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . prob . . . lems. I . . . I’ll . . . w . . . wake . . . u . . . up . . . o . . . one . . . d . . . day . . . a . . . and . . . i . . . it’ll a . . . all . . . b . . . b . . . be . . . o . . . over. You . . . a . . . and . . . R . . . Rosie . . . w . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . g . . . gone. Th . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . l . . . last . . . th . . . thing . . . you . . . n . . . need . . . i . . . is . . . th . . . th . . . three . . . ch . . . ch . . . chil . . . dren . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . after.” Sherlock refused to look at John. His throat was burning, and he could feel the tears starting to form in his eyes. “I . . . I . . . I . . . d . . . d . . . don’t . . . bl . . . blame . . . you. I . . . I . . . d . . . don’t. J . . . j . . . just . . . if . . . you’re . . . g . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . it . . . pl . . . pl . . . pl . . . please . . . d . . . d . . . d . . . do . . . i . . . it . . . n . . . n . . . now. D . . . d . . . don’t . . . l . . . l . . . let . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . g . . . get . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . h . . . hopes . . . u . . . up.” Sherlock fiddled with the sheet, biting his lip to keep a sob from coming out. He looked up at John, scared of what he’d see on John’s face.

John was struck by the look on Sherlock’s face. His eyes were wide open, and he swore he could see into Sherlock’s soul. It was the most fragile and vulnerable he’d ever seen Sherlock, his heart laid bare there for John to see.

At the same time, he was hurt — hurt to think Sherlock doubted him (though he knew it was more that Sherlock doubted that he was worth caring about). John knew he had to be careful what he said or he would destroy the man he loved with just a few syllables.

“Sherlock . . .” he began.

“I . . . I . . . I’m . . . b . . . broken . . . J . . . J . . . John. I . . . I . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . f . . . f . . . fixed. I . . . I’ll . . . n . . . n . . . never . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . again. I . . . I . . . I’m . . . n . . . n . . . no . . . g . . . g . . . good . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more,” he whispered. “You . . . d . . . d . . . deserve . . . b . . . bet . . . ter. You . . . n . . . n . . . need . . . b . . . b . . . bet . . .ter. I . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . bet . . . ter. I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . happy. I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . p . . . part . . . ner . . . n . . . not . . . a . . . res . . . respon . . . si . . . bil . . . ity. N . . . not . . . a . . . bur . . . den. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . ever . . . y . . . th . . . th . . . ing . . . f . . . for . . . you. B . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing . . . t . . . to . . . a . . . anyone.” Sherlock’s voice was rough with emotion. Large, wet tears splashed onto the back of his hands. There was a resignation to Sherlock’s words that would broke no argument. “I . . . it . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . k . . . k . . . kinder . . . f . . . for . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . n . . . now. I . . . I’ll . . . h . . . have . . . M . . . My . . . croft . . . f . . . find . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . an . . . in . . . st . . . tu . . . tion . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . l . . . live . . . in.”

“Please,” John said quietly as he reached out to take Sherlock’s hand. “Please, just stop this. It hurts when you doubt that I love you. Would you ever leave if it was me?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Then why do you think I would leave? I’ve told you over and over that I love you. And when I said it, I meant it. I don’t fall in love easily, and I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I wouldn’t leave you for anything. Yes, yes, you’re different. You aren’t the same, but it doesn’t matter. I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want you to be with me, to be with my children, our children. I knew what I was getting into. I’m not a lovesick innocent here. I knew it would be difficult. All relationships are hard, but this one has its own challenges. And I’m prepared to meet those challenges head to head. I’m yours and you’re mine. I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock Holmes. And if I have to say it everyday for the rest of my life until I’m blue in the face, I will.”

Sherlock hadn’t looked up but the tears had stopped as he sniffed.

“Please look at me, love. Look at me. Look at my face and you’ll see.”

Sherlock glanced up. He was afraid that John would be angry. But he wasn’t. He was looking at Sherlock with so much love on his face, Sherlock could hardly bear it. There was no question about it. There was no resignation. No disappointment. No trepidation. Just love . . . and it overwhelmed Sherlock with its intensity.

“I love you. Always and forever. No matter what happens. I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“I . . . I . . . I . . .” Sherlock tried hard to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat. “I . . . I . . . I . . . l . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . J . . . J . . . John . . . H . . . H . . . Hamish . . . W . . . W . . . Watson.” Sherlock reached up a shaking hand and touched John’s face. “I . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . s . . . sorry. F . . . f . . . for . . . give . . . m . . . me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I understand. I do, really. It’s a combination of the PTSD, the anxiety, the depression, and the low self-esteem. You’re fighting your own mind, love. It’s telling you things that aren’t true. And sometimes, when you’re at your weakest, they seem like they might be true.”

“I . . . I . . . I . . . w . . . w . . . won’t . . . m . . . mention . . . i . . . it . . . a . . . again.”

“I don’t want you doing that. If you’re in pain, I want to know I don’t want you suffering in silence.”

“B . . . b . . . but . . . you . . . s . . . said . . . i . . . it . . . h . . . hurts . . . w . . . when . . . I . . . question . . . y . . . y . . . your . . . l . . . love. I . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . h . . . hurt . . . you.”

“It does hurt, but I don’t want us keeping things from each other. Alright?”

Sherlock slowly nodded. “I . . . if . . . you . . . w . . . want.”

“I do want. I want you to feel better.”

“I . . . d . . . do . . . w . . . with . . . you.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock gently on the lips. “Good. I’m glad. Had your pills and everything?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay. I’ll get ready and come cuddle you.”

Sherlock laid in John’s arms, worried about what John had said. He didn’t want to hurt John, but he couldn’t help the thoughts that popped into his head. He just wanted John to be happy and couldn’t conceive how John would be happy having to look after him for the rest of his life. Should he try to drive John away? That might be better for him in the long run, but how could he live without John?

“Stop worrying,” John whispered.

“H . . . how . . . d . . . did . . . you . . . kn . . . know?”

“You’re tense and shivering. Stop worrying and just let us be happy.”

Sherlock nodded as he tried his best to block out the black thoughts that whirled around his brain, but when he’d shooed them away to the corners of his mind, the memories came back, loosened from their moorings and given free rein. It was almost overwhelming as they washed over him. The pain, the humiliation, the sounds, the smells. It was like he was there all over again.

Sherlock gasped as the memories dragged him into their twisted midst. As he wrestled to win back control of his mind, he could feel John gently shaking him.

“What’s wrong?” He could barely hear John.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and he was back in the warehouse. He was cold, hanging by his wrists from the ceiling and naked. He could smell his own body. He felt the warmness of his own blood dripping down his legs. The pain exploded into him, causing him to gasp again.

“N . . . no . . . m . . . more,” he whispered roughly. “P . . . pl . . . please.”

He heard a laugh behind him. “Not hardly. We’re just getting started.”

His back was on fire. His arms and wrists burned from being in the same position for so long. And his arse . . . well, he didn’t want to think about that.

He heard a zipper being unzipped behind him.

“N . . . no . . . n . . . not . . . a . . . again. P . . . please,” he begged.

A harsh laugh sounded behind him. His whole body tensed as he prepared for what was coming. He heard a crinkling of foil and looked down, seeing the empty packet hit the floor. He closed his eyes as a brutal hand painfully grasped his hip. There were already finger-shaped bruises there — midnight black against porcelain. He felt the tip probing against his unprepared entrance for only a second before it was rammed in.

Sherlock screamed as the pain hit. He felt something tear inside and more blood oozed down his legs. The latex rubbed him raw as the man behind him pounded into him, both hands digging deep into Sherlock’s hips.

“Stop it! Stop it, Sherlock! Come back! You’re not there! You’re home with me!” Sherlock heard John’s voice, but it seemed like a dream.

“J . . . J . . . John,” he whimpered softly. “H . . . h . . . help . . . m . . . m . . . me.”

“You’re here with me! In our home! In our bed! You’re alright, Sherlock! You aren’t there!”

Slowly, Sherlock’s perception changed. As the man behind him finished with a shout, Sherlock felt him pull out and the ooze of blood became a stream.

Sherlock hung his head, the pain and humiliation were almost more than he could bear. If only John was there . . . John could take his gun and kill every one of them for what they’d done. “J . . . J . . . John. H . . . h . . . help . . . m . . . m . . . me,” he whimpered again.

“I’m here! I’m here, love! Please, please come out of there! Come to me! Listen to my voice! Come back to me!”

The voice was almost real. Sherlock could almost let himself succumb to the hope that the voice held. John had come to rescue him. John would make it all better.

The bastard who had just raped him stepped out from behind him and pulled out a knife before he carved a deep line in Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock barely kept himself from screaming.

“My, my. So many marks. Getting to be quite the little slut, aren’t you?” He laughed in Sherlock’s face. Blood dripped down Sherlock’s chest and onto the floor.

“He’s panting for it,” another one of them said. Sherlock heard a zipper being pulled down behind him.

“N . . . n . . . no . . . n . . . n . . . no,” Sherlock begged, but both men just laughed.

“Don’t be such a tease. You know you want it,” a voice hissed in his ear.

“N . . . n . . . no . . . p . . . p . . . please.”

“Now he’s begging for it,” the man in front of him said.

“Glad to oblige,” the other said as he rammed himself into Sherlock’s torn and battered body. The pain was worse and Sherlock screamed again over and over as the pain built.

“Sherlock! Wake up! You’re with me! You’re safe!”

Sherlock could feel someone shaking him. 

“I’m here! You’re safe with me! You aren’t there anymore!”

Sherlock could feel the pain travelling through him. He watched the man in front of him laugh. He felt the fingers digging into his hips. How could he feel all this and hear John? He wanted John to be here but knew he couldn’t be.

John was getting desperate. He heard the lift engage and go upstairs. Rosie had heard Sherlock’s screams. He shook Sherlock harder. “Come back to me, Sherlock!”

Sherlock slowly became aware that something was going on outside of his body. He could still hear an increasingly louder voice. It certainly sounded like John, but was it just in his head? Was it only wishful thinking?

As the man behind him finished, the man in front of him carved another line in his chest.

But when they were done, he could still feel his body being shaken. 

“Wake up! Come back to me, Sherlock!”

He was sure he heard the voice now. He looked up. He couldn’t see John but he could feel the shaking. The walls of the warehouse began to waver. Sherlock could feel the pain that was pounding through his body begin to lessen, just a bit. Was he losing consciousness? Was this a dream?

“Sherlock, please!”

This voice was louder, and it was definitely John.

Sherlock shook his head and looked again. He could see another room, just beyond the warehouse. It looked like his bedroom. He could feel blankets. But the pain was still there, and he could still hear the men laughing at him.

“Come on, now! You’re nearly here! Listen to me! Follow my voice!”

He did listen this time. He shook his head as it began to clear, the muddle lessening. The pain began to lessen as well. His arms didn’t hurt so much or his back.

“J . . . J . . . John?” he whispered.

“I’m here, love. I’m here.”

“Papa, what’s wrong with Uncle Sherlock?”

John turned to his daughter. “He just had a very, very bad dream. It’s okay. It’s really okay. You can go back to bed.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

The little girl turned around and got back in the lift.

“J . . . J . . . John?” he heard a weak whisper.

“Fight it. Come back to me. Don’t let those bastards win.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes several times and thought he saw John hovering over him. He reached out with a visibly trembling hand to touch his face. “J . . . J . . . John . . . a . . . are . . . you . . . r . . . real?”

John’s heart clenched at the doubt in the small voice.

“I’m here,” he said as he laid his hand on Sherlock’s. “I’m here. You’re not there. You’re home with me. You’re safe and warm and loved. It wasn’t real. I promise.”

“I . . . it . . . f . . . felt . . . r . . . real. I . . . I . . . w . . . wished . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . th . . . there. I . . . w . . . wanted . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be. I . . . th . . . thought . . . you . . . c . . . could . . . c . . . come . . . w . . . with . . . your . . . g . . . gun . . . a . . . and . . . sh . . . shoot . . . th . . . them.”

“I would have it I could have. They can’t hurt you anymore. And believe me, they are suffering.”

“I . . . t . . . tried . . . t . . . to . . . p . . . put . . . a . . . away . . . th . . . those . . . m . . . memories . . . b . . . but . . . th . . . they . . . b . . . broke . . . l . . . loose. Oh . . . G . . . God. I . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . r . . . real. I . . . c . . . could . . . f . . . feel . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain, s . . . smell . . . a . . . and . . . see . . . th . . . that . . . pl . . . place. I . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . f . . . feel . . . the . . . bl . . . blood . . . dr . . . dripping . . . o . . . off . . . m . . . me. I . . . I . . . f . . . felt . . . th . . . them . . . r . . . raping . . . m . . . me, c . . . carving . . . l . . . lines . . . I . . . into . . . m . . . m . . . my . . . ch . . . chest.”

John paled as Sherlock’s voice caught. Rage built in his chest over what they had done to Sherlock. He would have put a bullet into each of those men’s skulls if he’d gotten there first. But he knew they were suffering now more than a quick death would have allowed. 

“Th . . . they . . . h . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . m . . . me . . . J . . . John,” Sherlock said in a small voice.

“I know, love. I know. But no one will ever hurt you again. I promise.” He kissed Sherlock’s forehead and clenched his hand in his.

“I . . . i . . . it . . . h . . . h . . . h . . . hurt . . . s . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . m . . . much. S . . . s . . . sex . . . i . . . isn’t . . . s . . . s . . . sup . . . posed . . . t . . . to . . .h . . . hurt . . . l . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . th . . . that . . . i . . . is . . . i . . . it?”

“No. Never. Not if you love the other person. Not if you care like we care about each other. There might be a little bit of pain at first, but a person who loves another person would prepare them.” 

“N . . . not . . . j . . . just . . . r . . . ram . . . i . . . in?”

“No. Never, love.”

“A . . . all . . . I . . . c . . . could . . .th . . . think . . . o . . . of . . . w . . . was . . . you. I . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . i . . . if . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . h . . . had . . . s . . . sex. If . . . s . . . sex . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . all . . . a . . . about . . . w . . . who . . . h . . . had . . . p . . . power . . . o . . . over . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . other . . . p . . . person. I . . . if . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . p . . . pain . . . a . . . and . . . hum . . . il . . . ia . . . tion . . . I . . . I . . . sw . . . swore . . . I . . . I’d . . . n . . . never . . . su . . . sub . . . ject . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . it. I . . . I’d . . . r . . . rather . . . c . . . cut . . . o . . . of . . .m . . . my . . . pe . . . penis . . . th . . . then . . . e . . . ever . . . h . . . hurt . . . you.”

John felt a chill run down his back. He pulled Sherlock into his arms. “It’s not like that. You would never hurt me just like I would never hurt you. Don’t worry. It’ll be alright.”

“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry.”

“For what?”

“U . . . up . . . setting . . . you. I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . m . . . make . . . a . . . all . . . g . . . go . . . away. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . with . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . mem . . . ories . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more.”

“I wish I could take them from you. I wish I could have stopped them before they hurt you.” 

Sherlock cuddled into John, relishing the closeness, the warmth.

“I . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . th . . . this. J . . . just . . . u . . . us . . . a . . . and . . . o . . . our . . . f . . . family.”

“That’s what I want too. I want us to be happy here. This is our home. We belong here. I’ve never really felt at home anywhere but at 221B. And you being here is why.”

“You . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . f . . .feel . . . a . . . at . . . h . . . home . . . too. I . . . I . . . love . . . you.”

“I love you too.”

“K . . . kiss . . . m . . . me. L . . . let . . . m . . . me . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . re . . . r . . . real.”

John felt a lump form in his throat as he kissed Sherlock. To know that he doubted, however slightly, that he was safe, that he was with John, made him sad.

He hugged Sherlock to him, running his fingers through his hair until he was nearly purring. He kissed him again and again until Sherlock’s lips were red and swollen.

“Convinced this is real?” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled as he nestled himself in John’s arms. “M . . . my . . . J . . . John.”

“My Sherlock,” John whispered back. He turned the light off and laid down, pulling Sherlock to him.

The next morning, he decided he’d go out and find a book that the two of them could look at and discuss. When Dr. Cooper arrived, John took a cab downtown to one of the bigger bookstores. He was a little embarrassed to be looking at the quite explicit books in public, but he knew that he was bisexual and he knew, despite his own experiences, there was more to sex than just . . . well . . . sex.

He found one with lots of illustrations and paid for it before heading into a nearby bakery to bring Sherlock and Rosie a treat for dessert.

When he got home, he showed Sherlock the book. Sherlock turned a bit red but seemed interested. He didn’t think he was quite ready to look at it yet, but wanted to talk to John.

“I . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . take . . . it . . . sl . . . slowly. We . . . we’ve . . . g . . . got . . . th . . . three . . . m . . . more . . . m . . . months. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . talk . . . a . . . about . . . us.”

“What about us?”

“Are . . . you . . . s . . . sure . . . ab . . . so . . . lute . . . ly . . . s . . . sure . . . a . . . about . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . m . . . me? Th . . . that . . . you . . . r . . . really . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . s . . . sexual . . . r . . . rel . . . a . . . tion . . . ship . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me?”

“Of course I do. I love you. And I want us to be together in every way you want.”

“And . . . you . . . w . . . want?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Ph . . . ph . . . physic . . . ally . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . w . . . would . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me. I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . that. I . . . it’s . . . m . . .my . . . own . . . d . . . damned . . . m . . . mind . . . th . . . that’s . . . d . . . doing . . . it. Th . . . things . . . th . . . that . . . sh . . . should . . . b . . . be . . . n . . . normal . . . t . . . to . . . a . . . anyone . . . else . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . flash . . . b . . . back.”

“That’s not your fault. It isn’t.”

“I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . wish . . . it . . . w . . . would . . . g . . . go . . . away. C . . . can’t . . . it . . . j . . . just . . . g . . . go . . . away?”

“I wish it would. I wish you could. It’ll never completely go away. But it will get better. You won’t think about it all the time.”

“You . . . h . . . help.”

John smiled warmly at Sherlock. “Really?”

“O . . . of . . . c . . . course . . . you . . . d . . . do? I . . . c . . . can . . . th . . . think . . . of . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . it . . . all . . . g . . . goes . . . a . . . way. At . . . l . . . least . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . while.” Sherlock turned a bit red. “A . . . and . . . I . . . d . . . do . . . th . . . think . . . r . . . rather . . . a . . . lot . . . a . . . about . . . s . . . sex . . . w . . . with . . . you.”

John smiled even wider. “And I have sex dreams about you too.”

“R . . . really?”

John nodded.

“D . . . did . . . you . . . h . . . have . . . th . . . them . . . be . . . fore?”

“Before what?”

“Wh . . . when . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . m . . . married.”

John didn’t like to remember that he’d been married. The thought of Mary turned his stomach now. The thought that he’d loved her, the thought that he’d made love to her. The thought of the vicious monster that had been hidden behind that sweet face. The thought that she’d fooled him and threatened Sherlock’s life, had killed him for all intents and purposes. The damage that she had done to Sherlock that would never heal. She’d taken almost everything away from him, all because of her jealousy. 

“I won’t lie to you. There were times I imagined she was you. I didn’t even admit it to myself but I did. Your long white body under me. The sounds you’d make. How I’d tear you down and make you a moaning mess.” John pictured it in his mind, that long body covered in sweat, groaning for him. His penis gave a jump as he imagined Sherlock naked, panting for him, as he imagined him moaning his name.

Sherlock’s face turned redder. “I . . . I’ve . . . th . . . thought . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . same . . . things . . . t . . . too. Of . . . t . . . touching . . . you . . . l . . . lis . . . tening . . . t . . . to . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . hear . . . you . . . m . . . moan . . . m . . . my . . . n . . . name . . . and . . . kn . . . know . . . I’m . . . d . . . doing . . . th . . . that . . . to . . . you.” Sherlock’s hand grazed over John’s chest. “I . . . w . . . want . . . you. S . . . so . . . ver . . . y . . . m . . . much. I . . . w . . . wish . . . oh . . . h . . . how . . . I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . st . . . still . . . the . . . m . . . man . . . in . . . y . . . your . . . im . . . agin . . . ation. I . . . w . . . was . . . n’t . . . per . . . fect . . . b . . . by . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . means . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . wh . . . whole.”

“It doesn’t matter, love. I love you. All of you. We can’t change the past.”

“I . . . j . . . just . . . can . . . t . . . h . . . help . . . f . . . feeling . . . un . . . worthy . . . o . . . of . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . wh . . . ole . . . f . . . for . . . you. B . . . but . . . I’ll . . . n . . . never . . . b . . . be . . . again.” Sherlock laid his face against John’s chest, twining the remains of his hand with John’s. “I . . . I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . wr . . . writing . . . m . . . music . . . f . . . for . . . u . . . us . . . in . . .m . . . my . . . h . . . head. B . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . e . . . ever . . . pl . . . play . . . it . . . f . . . for . . . you.”

“We could hire someone.”

“I . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . pl . . . play . . . it . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . first . . . n . . . night . . . w . . . we . . . m . . . make . . . l . . . love.”

“We can still do that. We can get someone to record it. I’m sure Mycroft can get someone to transcribe the music for you. That would be wonderful.”

“You . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so?”

“It would, love. To know that you’re composing again. It makes me happy. And to know that it’s for me, just makes it better.”

Sherlock shyly smiled and rubbed his head against John’s chest.

“M . . . maybe . . . I . . . w . . . will. B . . . but . . . you . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . here. I . . . c . . . can . . . pro . . . bab . . . ly . . . f . . . find . . . a . . . pr . . . pro . . . gram . . . o . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . com . . . pu . . . ter . . . t . . . to . . . wr . . . write . . . it . . . d . . . down.”

“You probably could. I can help you.”

“Al . . . right.”

They laid in silence for a moment.

“I . . . th . . . think . . . w . . . we . . . sh . . . should . . . prac . . . tice . . . t . . . touching. Th . . . the . . . d . . . doc . . . tor . . . s . . . said . . . I . . . sh . . . should . . . t . . . touch . . . you . . . in . . . pl . . . aces . . . I’m . . . okay . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . t . . . touched . . . and . . . h . . . have . . . you . . . t . . . touch . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . back.”

“You sure you want to try?”

Sherlock nodded.

John helped Sherlock sit up. “Should we take our shirts off?”

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t seem to be as self conscious now that the long lines were all but gone from his chest.

Sherlock sat there for a moment, suddenly shy. He knew he could touch all of John now but where to start? And where did he feel comfortable? He knew that his body belonged to John, just like John’s belonged to him. There were just so many parts of his body he didn’t want John to see: his hands, his back, his legs. But, for now, his chest was alright.

He reached out with a slightly shaking hand and put his fingers in John’s hair. John reciprocated, making Sherlock almost sigh with pleasure. He reluctantly moved his hand to cup John’s cheek and then touch his shoulder. John followed suit.

Sherlock placed his hand flat against the centre of John’s chest. John did the same, slightly ruffling Sherlock’s chest hair, making him giggle.

“I . . . L . . . love . . . you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” John whispered back and he closed the distance between them to capture Sherlock’s mouth with his own. They kissed for long moments before John pulled away, smiling.

Sherlock’s hand was still on John’s chest. He moved a bit to the left and grazed one of John’s nipples.

John moaned low in his throat as he reached out and touched Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock leaned into the touch as it sent shivers of pleasure through his body.

“Like that, don’t you?” John said smiling.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes as he tried to catalogue the feeling. If this felt so good, what would it feel like with John’s mouth, his tongue?

John’s other hand brushed against Sherlock’s other nipple.

“Oh . . . oh,” Sherlock moaned, as the feeling overwhelmed him. Why he’d never done this before eluded him. But it came to him, suddenly. He’d never wanted anyone before John. He’d long ago classified himself as asexual. He’d never been interested in anyone through school, uni, or afterwards. The other boys made fun of him, calling him derogatory names. He didn’t care at the time, as he used his mind and observational skills to put down every one of them with their own secrets. But then, there’d been John.

He’d known, at least part of him did, from the moment John had come into the lab at Bart’s that he wanted him. He could hardly believe now that John wanted him back. All of this was so new to him. He knew what sex involved but to experience it . . . with John. It was almost more than he could bear. And the thought of John touching his penis . . . 

His penis twitched with definite interest. Oh, how he wanted John. But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock again.

Sherlock felt overwhelmed with all the feelings going through him. He gave in to them as his penis began to rapidly harden. He so wanted John to touch him there, but would it be too much? Would he not want to stop?

John flicked both nipples with his fingers and Sherlock gasped into the kiss, his whole body shaking. He pulled back a bit.

“Sorry,” John said. “Too much?”

“A . . . l . . . little,” Sherlock gasped. “W . . . was . . . n’t . . . r . . . ready . . . f . . . for . . . it. G . . . got . . . a . . . l . . . little . . . o . . . over . . . st . . . im . . . ula . . . ted.”

John eyed the bulge in Sherlock’s sleeping trousers. “I see,” he smiled. “Got one of those myself.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s crotch and was surprised to see he had an erection as well.

“Think we’ve done enough for today?” John asked.

“W . . . we . . . b . . . better . . . s . . . stop. O . . . or . . . I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . un . . . unable . . . to.”

John touched Sherlock’s face, running his thumb over his cheekbone. “It’s good to know that we’re both attracted to each other so much.”

Sherlock smiled at John as he moved slightly.

“Want your shirt back on?”

“C . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . t . . . take . . . a . . . n . . . nap . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this?”

“Sure.” John helped Sherlock to lie down.

Sherlock cuddled into John’s chest as John ruffled his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock moaned slightly.

“You’ve really got a thing for someone playing with your hair, don’t you?”

“I . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . sen . . . sitive . . . f . . . f . . . follicles.”

John giggled before he settled down, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reworking everything from scratch for the next chapter so it might be awhile. I'm hoping not too long.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is getting better. He's happier. Things are getting better. Until someone from his past makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter. It's longer than most chapters, but, once I got working on it, I didn't want to stop it in the middle.

It was after lunch the next day, as he was finishing up the lunch dishes, that John noticed something wasn’t quite right with Sherlock. He was sitting in his wheelchair looking out the window. Nothing seemed to be wrong, but John just couldn’t help feeling that something was up. Sherlock seemed to be staring out into the distance, completely lost in thought. He was rubbing his hands over his quilt-covered legs.

John went over to him and bent over. “You okay, love?” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock started but soon brought himself under control. “I’m . . . f . . . fine,” he said in a small voice. “I . . . j . . . just . . . m . . . miss . . . every . . . th . . . thing.”

“Everything?”

“M . . . me. I . . . m . . . miss . . . m . . . me. I’m . . . n . . . not . . . h . . . him . . . any . . . m . . . more. I’m . . . n . . . not . . . Sher . . . l . . . lock . . . H . . . Holmes. I . . . m . . . miss . . . g . . . grab . . . bing . . . m . . . my . . . B . . . Bel . . . staff . . . and . . . r . . . running . . . d . . . down . . . the . . . st . . . stairs . . . to . . . h . . . hail . . . a . . . c . . . cab. I . . . m . . . miss . . . r . . . running . . . th . . . through . . . the . . . s . . . streets . . . of . . . L . . . London . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . at . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . heels. I . . . m . . . miss . . . c . . . crouching . . . o . . . over . . . a . . . b . . . body . . . and . . . r . . . rattl . . . ing . . . off . . . ded . . . uctions . . . and . . . l . . . looking . . . u . . . up . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . you . . . s . . . smiling . . . at . . . m . . . me. I . . . m . . . miss . . . you . . . s . . . saying . . . f . . . fan . . . tas . . . tic . . . and . . . a . . . amazing . . . and . . . l . . . looking . . . at . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . a . . . maze . . . ment. I . . . w . . . want . . . it . . . b . . . back. I . . . w . . . want . . . it . . . all . . . b . . . back. I . . . h . . . hate . . . b . . . being . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this. I . . . h . . . hate . . . it. Use . . . less . . . l . . . legs,” he said, hitting both legs with his hands. “Use . . . less . . . h . . . hands.” He beat them against his legs again. “Use . . . less . . . b . . . brain.” He struck his head twice before John grabbed his hands. “A . . . all . . . use . . . less,” he said quietly as he looked down at his lap. “I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . me . . . again. J . . . John . . . h . . . help . . . m . . . me.”

John’s eyes filled with tears as Sherlock’s desperate eyes caught his. “I wish I could, love. I wish I could give it all back to you. I would in a heartbeat, you know. But you’re not useless. You’ll never ever be that.”

“C . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . d . . . detec . . . tive. W . . . what’s . . . the . . . use . . . of . . . m . . . me?” His voice was so defeated, John winced at the pain in it.

“You can still consult for Greg if you want.”

“I . . . c . . . can . . . j . . . just . . . h . . . hear . . . Don . . . a . . . van . . . l . . . laughing . . . at . . . m . . . me . . . n . . . now. T . . . tell . . . ing . . . m . . . me . . . I . . . prob . . . ably . . . d . . . deserved . . . th . . . this. M . . . my . . . br . . . brain’s . . . n . . . not . . . w . . . working . . . r . . . right . . . any . . . way. Wh . . . what . . . use . . . w . . . would . . . I . . . b . . . be?”

“You could work on cold cases. Build your skills back up. I can help you.”

“You . . . w . . . would?”

“Of course I would.”

“Wh . . . when? I’ve . . . g . . . got . . . phy . . . ical . . . ther . . . apy . . . D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper . . . sp . . . speech . . . ther . . . apy . . . and . . . you . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . Rosie.”

“Between appointments, after Rosie goes to bed. We’ll make time.”

“D . . . do . . . you . . . r . . . really . . . th . . . think . . . we . . . c . . . can . . . d . . . do . . . it?” he whispered. “I’m . . . a . . . almost . . . a . . . afraid . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . try. I’m . . . a . . . afraid . . . it’s . . . g . . . gone . . . f . . . forever.”

John reached out and touched his face. “We’ll never know if we don’t try.”

“B . . . but . . . wh . . . what . . . if . . .”

“We’ll get over whatever hurdles come. We always do.”

Sherlock put his head down again. “I’m . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . much . . . g . . . good . . . f . . . for . . . h . . . hur . . . dles,” he whispered.

John winced at his poor choice of words. “We’ll be alright.” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Let’s call Greg now. Ask him for some case files.”

“A . . . alright.”

John dialed the mobile and handed it to Sherlock. 

“John! How are you, mate? How’s Sherlock? Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“It’s . . . m . . . me,” Sherlock said. “I . . . w . . . was . . . w . . . won . . . dering . . . if . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . a . . . ask . . . a . . . f . . . favour.”

“Anything you want.” 

“C . . . can . . . you . . . b . . . bring . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . some . . . c . . . cold . . . c . . . case . . . f . . . files?”

“Want to get back on the horse, huh? That’s great. Sure could use you back here. It’s certainly not the same without you here to help. I’d be glad to round up some cases. I’ll drop them off tonight.”

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . pr . . . promise . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . s . . . solve . . . th . . . them . . . b . . . but . . . I’ll . . . tr . . . try. Th . . . thanks.”

“No problem. See you tonight.”

Sherlock hung up after thanking Greg again. He looked skeptical that all of it would work, and that look made John cringe.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. You’ll see. It’ll all work out.”

That night, after dinner, Greg and Molly came up in the lift, the case files under Lestrade’s arm.

“Thought I’d tag along for a visit,” Molly said as she hung up her coat. “Plus, we’ve got some news.”

“Oh, really? What’s that?” John asked as he put the kettle on.

“We’ve been planning the wedding. We’re getting married next month,” Molly said, smiling.

“C . . . con . . . grat . . . u . . . lations,” Sherlock said, smiling.

“Yes, congrats!” John said as he hugged Molly and kissed her cheek.

“And we want to ask a favour,” Greg said as he dumped the files on Sherlock’s desk.

“Sure, anything,” John said.

“Sherlock,” Greg said, kneeling down beside Sherlock’s wheelchair. “Will you be my best man?”

“And would you be an usher, John?” Molly asked.

John looked at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock smiled too and nodded at John. “We’d be honoured to,” John said. 

Greg and Molly thanked them. They all sat talking about the wedding for a few minutes when Rosie came down in the lift from her room.

“Hi, Rosie,” Molly said.

“Hi, Molly. Hi, Greg.”

“Greg and Molly are getting married next month,” John said as she climbed into Sherlock’s lap. 

“And we’d like you to be the flower girl,” Molly said.

“Really? Oh, Papa, can I?” she asked, literally bouncing up and down on Sherlock’s lap.

“Of course you can. I’m going to be an usher and Sherlock’s going to be best man.” 

“We’re all in the wedding? That’s great!!”

“I was thinking you could wear an emerald green dress. The bridesmaids will be wearing green. And you’ll have baby’s breath in your hair. Do you like that?”

“That would be so cool. I can’t wait.” 

Molly grinned and looked up at John. “We’ve got a fitting next Saturday, if that’s okay.”

“That’ll be fine. Thank you so much for asking us. We’re honoured.”

“Of course we’d have you all in the wedding. Who else would I have for my best man?” Greg said, slapping Sherlock on the back. 

“You’re . . . s . . . sure . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . beside . . . you?”

“So long as you don’t lose the ring,” Greg said, smiling.

“You’re . . . s . . . sure . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . the . . . p . . . pic . . . tures?”

“Oh, Sherlock. Of course, we want you in the pictures. You’re part of our family after all. You’ll be Uncle Sherlock to our baby. Besides,” Molly said, reaching out to touch his hand. “Who wouldn’t want that handsome face in their wedding pictures?”

Sherlock looked up at her, a tentative smile on his face. “You . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so?”

“Fishing for compliments from my girl?” Greg joked.

Sherlock turned red but smiled widely at Greg. 

“Who are your bridesmaids?” Rosie asked.

“My sister Samantha’s going to be my matron of honour. My nieces Alice and Hermione are going to be my bridesmaids.”

“What about you, Greg?”

“Well, I’ve got you and Sherlock, and Molly’s brother-in-law, Mike, will be my other usher.”

“My mum and dad are so excited,” Molly said. “Dad can’t wait to walk me down the aisle.”

“My mum said she’s glad that I’ve got a “real good one” now, as she says. She warned me from the beginning that my ex and me would end up divorced. “Molly will never leave you” she keeps saying.”

“And she’s right,” Molly said as she smiled up at Greg.

Sherlock cocked his head, squinted his eyes, and regarded Greg and then Molly. 

“What’re you doing?” John asked.

“Using . . . m . . . my . . . d . . . deduc . . . tive . . . sk . . . ills. O . . . or . . . what’s . . . l . . . left . . . of . . . th . . . them.” He looked at them closely a moment more before straightening his head and nodding. “G . . . Graham’s . . . m . . . mother . . . is . . . r . . . right.” 

Greg, Molly, and John broke into laughter and Molly got up and hugged Sherlock. “Are you ever going to stop teasing him and get his name right?”

“W . . . who’s . . . n . . . name?”

They all laughed again. Greg fondly ruffled Sherlock’s hair and Molly kissed him on the cheek. 

John got out a bottle of wine that he’d picked up for a special occasion and poured glasses for them to celebrate. He poured out glasses of juice for Sherlock and Rosie. 

They talked long into the night, and Rosie fell asleep in Sherlock’s lap. 

When they were laying in bed that night, Sherlock said, “W . . . what . . . a . . . about . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . best . . . m . . . man’s . . . sp . . . speech?”

“What about it? You gave an absolutely amazing one at my wedding,” John said, and then chuckled. “Though this time, try not to tell the groom that you’re in love with him.”

Sherlock squirmed a bit against John’s chest. “W . . . well, I . . . d . . . do . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “And if I’d been honest with myself, I’d have bent you over the head table and kissed you until we both had to come up for air. Then we’d run off like Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross at the end of The Graduate.” 

Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat. “B . . . but . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . give a . . . sp . . . speech. H . . . how . . . c . . . can . . . I . . . d . . . do . . . it . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . t . . . talk . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this?”

“It could get better. You’ve still got a month.”

“It’s . . . b . . . better . . . th . . . than . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . it’ll . . . g . . . get . . . any . . . b . . . better. I . . . th . . . think . . . I’m . . . a . . . always . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . sound . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

A wave of guilt went through John. He would never forgive himself for causing the accident that took Sherlock’s speech from him. “Greg wouldn’t have asked you to be his best man if he didn’t want you to do the best man’s speech.”

“B . . . but . . . th . . . there’ll . . . b . . . be . . . p . . . people . . . f . . . from . . . the . . . M . . . Met . . . and . . . M . . . Molly’s . . . c . . . colleagues . . . a . . . and . . . f . . . family. I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . so . . . em . . . barrased.”

“Nonsense. Greg and Molly love you. Don’t forget that. They want you there.”

“I . . . j . . . just . . . know . . . D . . . Don . . . avan . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . th . . . there. Sh . . . she’ll . . . m . . . make . . . f . . . fun . . . of . . . h . . . how . . . I . . . t . . . talk.”

“No, she won’t. Greg would never let her. He’ll either fire her ass or have her transferred. He could barely stand her to begin with. That would push it over the edge. And she doesn’t have Anderson there to back her up. He’s your biggest fan now after all.”

“N . . . not . . . a . . . anymore.”

“Of course he is. He emails me quite often to find out how you are.”

“R . . . really?”

“Yes. He’s been keeping up “The Empty Hearse” club, which has more members than ever. They’ve got quite a webpage about you.”

“Wh . . . why . . . d . . . didn’t . . . you . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me?”

“I was going to. I was just a bit concerned you’d be a bit . . . upset about it.”

“B . . . because . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . det . . . ec . . . tive . . . any . . . m . . . more. I . . . it’s . . . o . . . okay. I . . . it’s . . . r . . . really . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . fl . . . atter . . . ing. M . . . maybe . . . And . . . er . . . son . . . isn’t . . . s . . . such . . . an . . . id . . . iot . . . a . . . after . . . all.”

John giggled. “Maybe not.” 

Over the next few days, whenever they had some time, Sherlock and John would look over the first cold case file. 

Sherlock got frustrated because he couldn’t see any connections between the clues; it just wouldn’t gel for him. He had to keep re-reading the file as details would slip his mind.

John hated seeing him this way. The old Sherlock would probably have solved all of the cases by now. But he patiently explained things, tacked clues up on the wall like Sherlock used to do, went over the facts with Sherlock again and again.

They went to bed frustrated. John asked if they could continue the touching exercise. Sherlock surprised him by agreeing. The touching never went beyond his chest, not his legs or his hands, or, as yet, his back. John knew Sherlock hated the idea of what his back looked like. He wouldn’t let John see him, and he didn’t want John to touch him there. 

“Sherlock? Is there a reason you don’t want me to touch your back when you have your shirt off?”

Sherlock turned white and looked down at his hands. “You’ve . . . s . . . seen . . . it . . . J . . . John. You . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . an . . . ug . . . ly . . . m . . . mess . . . it . . . is,” he whispered. “I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . touch . . . th . . . that . . . ug . . . li . . . ness.”

“It’s part of you, love. I hate that you were hurt that way, but it’s part of your body.”

Sherlock sat quietly for a few moments. “You . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . touch . . . it . . . if . . . you . . . w . . . want,” he whispered.

John knew that this was a hard decision for Sherlock to make. And he would do nothing to jeopardize the great trust that Sherlock was showing him.

He reached out slowly, cautiously. His hand went around Sherlock and gently touched his back. He’d touched it before, carrying him to the tub, looking after him, but this was different. The ridge and valleys felt alien, and he could only imagine the pain that had come with each of the wounds. He lightly traced the scars he could reach.

He got up and moved to sit behind Sherlock. The sight made him bite his lip in anger. The broad expanse of what had been flawless ivory skin was now crossed with scars. He reached out and gently traced them. Sherlock began to tremble, and his head remained down. He didn’t make a sound as John continued. But he gasped when John leaned forward and kissed his back.

“You . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . th . . . that. I . . . kn . . . know . . . it’s . . . d . . . dis . . . gusting,” he said in a very small, wet-sounding voice.

“It’s you, love,” John said as he leaned forward again and kissed Sherlock’s back before he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest and gently pulled him backwards so his chest rested against Sherlock’s back. “I love all of you.”

Sherlock’s hands came up to touch John’s arm as he leaned his head back against John’s shoulder. “I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

“I love you too.”

They sat there for long moments. Finally, John got up and moved around so he was facing Sherlock again. He wiped the tears off Sherlock’s face and kissed him softly on the lips. He reached down and took one of Sherlock’s hands and laid it on the scar on his shoulder.

“You don’t mind touching that, do you?”

“O . . . of . . . c . . . course . . . n . . . not,” Sherlock said as his fingers softly traced the edges of the scar.

“Same with me.”

“R . . . really? Th . . . there’s . . . j . . . just . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . many . . . s . . . scars . . . e . . . every . . . where.”

“It doesn’t matter because I love the person underneath them.” He reached out and gently touched Sherlock’s face. “You’re mine and I’m yours, warts, scars, and all.”

The look in Sherlock’s eye was so hopeful, so young, so innocent that it nearly made John’s heart skip a beat. He leaned forward and kissed Sherlock again.

“We belong together, you and I,” John said when he broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I knew it the moment I stepped in that lab and you looked up at me with those kaleidoscope eyes of yours. I just didn’t know right then, at least consciously, that we’d be here like this. Do you have any idea how happy I am that we are here together like this?”

John felt Sherlock’s brow furl. “B . . . but . . .”

John reached up and put a finger to the lips he loved. “No more. I don’t want you to tell me what I’m missing or what’s wrong. We have each other. That’s what matters. You and me and Rosie and, soon, the baby. Our family. It makes me so happy.”

“M . . . me . . . t . . . too.”

When they laid down to go to sleep, John laid in Sherlock’s arms, his head on his chest.

The next morning, they took a break from the case file as John helped Sherlock find a music composing program on the internet. It took awhile for Sherlock to get the hang of it before he kicked John out of the bedroom so he could work on his composition.

John was happy that Sherlock was composing again. And he was touched that his first composition was going to be something for John. He decided to go out for a walk in the park and a trip to Tesco to get them something great for dinner.

Between Sherlock’s appointments and his composing, John didn’t see much of Sherlock for the whole day. He and Mrs. Hudson watched afternoon telly, and they made dinner. After Rosie had come home and done her homework, John knocked on their bedroom door and told Sherlock that dinner was ready. He went in and sat on the edge of the bed as Sherlock closed up the laptop. He bent over and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“Did you have a productive day, love?”

“S . . . same . . . o . . . old, s . . . same . . . o . . . old . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sessions.”

“How’s your music coming along?”

He smiled widely and excitedly. “V . . . very . . . g . . . good. O . . . once . . . I . . . g . . . got . . . st . . . started . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . music . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . flowed. It . . . f . . . felt . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good. L . . . like . . . be . . . fore. L . . . like . . . wh . . . en . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . st . . . still . . . pl . . . play . . . m . . . my . . . v . . . violin. Oh . . . J . . . John. It’s . . . a . . . amazing. I . . . n . . . never . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this . . . e . . . ever . . . a . . . again.”

“Oh, love. I’m so happy for you. So happy.” He reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. “I’m so glad we found that program.”

“It . . . s . . . sounds . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good. I . . . w . . . was . . . im . . . pressed. You . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . weirdest . . . th . . . thing? I . . . f . . . feel . . . fr . . . free. I . . . c . . . can . . . st . . . still . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . music.”

John smiled widely. Sherlock’s happiness was contagious. John kissed him and hugged him tight. “I love seeing you like this.”

“I . . . l . . . love . . . f . . . feeling . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this. I . . . w . . . wish . . . we’d . . . th . . . thought . . . o . . . of . . . it . . . be . . . fore.”

They snuggled for a minute before John picked him up, put him in the wheelchair, and wheeled him out to the kitchen. All four of them laughed and talked through John’s dinner.

Over the next few days, John and Sherlock continued with the cold case in between Sherlock’s appointments and music. Sherlock noted an irregularity in the case that pointed the finger toward someone the police had cleared. He was so excited, so happy that he’d been able to do something.

When Greg reported that they’d arrested the suspect, Sherlock actually whooped for joy.

“I told you. I told you that you could do it,” John said, smiling.

“I knew you still had it in you,” Greg said, a huge smile on his face.

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . believe . . . it. I . . . d . . . did . . . it. I . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . d . . . done . . . it . . . w . . . without . . . you . . . J . . . John. You . . . p . . . pushed . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . the . . . r . . . right . . . d . . . dir . . . ec . . . tion.”

“It was all you. You saw that discrepancy. I didn’t.”

“How about I take you guys out for dinner? To celebrate,” Greg said.

John looked at Sherlock, who’s face sobered a bit.

“What do you think, love?”

“A . . . Angelo’s?”

John smiled. “Looks like you’ve got a date. I’ll see if Mrs. Hudson can watch Rosie.”

Sherlock asked John to help him dress as he put on one of his suits and the purple shirt he knew was John’s favourite. The shirt, meant to be tight, was loose on him.

“I told you. You’ve got to eat more,” John said, as he finished buttoning it.

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . g . . . get . . . m . . . much . . . ex . . . ercise . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . the . . . th . . . erapy . . . and . . . th . . . that’s . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . much.”

“You don’t eat enough. You have a high metabolism. You need to eat more.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’ll . . . t . . . try.”

“Good,” John said, as he kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

John turned and got dressed himself. He put on the oatmeal-coloured jumper he knew was Sherlock’s favourite.

“You . . . w . . . wore . . . th . . . that . . . the . . . f . . . first . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . went . . . t . . . to . . . A . . . Angelo’s.”

“Yes, I did Mr. “I’m-Married-to-my-Work.””

Sherlock smiled. “M . . . maybe . . . s . . . some . . . day . . . I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . married . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . some . . . one . . . e . . . else.”

John smiled back. “That would be amazing. Would you be Mr. Watson or me Mr. Holmes?”

“W . . . Watson . . . H . . . Holmes . . . or . . . H . . . Holmes . . . W . . . Watson?”

John thought for a moment as he brushed his hair. “Watson-Holmes, I think. Got a good ring to it.” He crouched down in front of Sherlock and laid a hand on his cheek. “Someday, love. Someday soon I hope. That is, a) if you want to and b) you want me.”

“I . . . sh . . . should . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . asking . . . you . . . th . . . those . . . q . . . questions. F . . . for . . . m . . . me . . . it’s . . . yes . . . a . . . and . . . yes.”

John smiled widely and leaned up to kiss Sherlock.

“Hey, lovebirds. You almost ready?” Greg shouted from the sitting room.

“Just snogging,” John yelled back.

Sherlock laughed and it made John so happy to hear it. He wheeled Sherlock out and the three of them took the lift downstairs.

John popped his head in the door at Mrs. Hudson’s to give Rosie a quick hug before he left. He found her and Mrs. Hudson deep into cooking. He expected Rosie would be full of sugar by the time he returned.

John pushed Sherlock while they walked to Angelo’s, talking about the case the whole way.

Angelo was delighted to see them and gave them the best seat in the house. He congratulated Sherlock on his surgery, telling him he looked just the same as he did before.

Angelo brought wine for John and Greg. Sherlock really wanted some but knew the pain meds he was on wouldn’t allow him to partake. He’d brought his spoon so John wouldn’t have to feed him and ordered his favourite dish.

The three talked and laughed, reminiscing long into the evening. When it came time to leave, Angelo insisted that dinner was on him and told them to come back whenever they liked.

Greg caught a cab at the restaurant and warmly wished the two a good evening. John pushed Sherlock home as they enjoyed the cool night.

“Th . . . that . . . w . . . was . . . n . . . nice,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, it was. We should go out more often.”

“M . . . maybe. W . . . we . . . sh . . . should . . . t . . . take . . . M . . . Mrs. . . . H . . . Hud . . . son . . . out.”

“That sounds like fun. We certainly owe Mrs. Hudson a couple of dozen dinners for all the times she’s been there for us and cooked for us.”

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock hummed.

John noticed that Sherlock had his hands hidden in the pockets of his suit jacket.

“You cold, love?” he asked.

“A . . . b. . . bit.”

“We’ll be home soon. I’ll put a nice fire on, and we can sit in front of it while I get Rosie ready for bed.”

They collected Rosie and thanked Mrs. Hudson for taking care of her.

Rosie was working on a project for science class and had talked her father into letting her stick pins into the wall to show the different aspects she wanted to cover. “Sherlock did it,” she argued when John asked her why. Sherlock had laughed, and the sound of it so pleased John that he immediately agreed.

Sherlock had studied her arrangement and made a very few suggestions before declaring it brilliant. Rosie had smiled widely. The project itself wasn’t due for another two weeks but she was nearly ready to put it all together. John promised her that they’d get everything for it on the weekend. 

Gladstone laid down in front of the fire as Aurora stretched and jumped up on Sherlock’s knee, kneading for a few moments before she laid down, purring loudly. Sherlock’s fingers found their way into her fur as he stared into the fire.

John smiled. He couldn’t believe how happy he was just then, being with the man he loved and his daughter in what had to be the coziest, warmest flat in London. It was so domestic, so ordinary — but it made him so happy. To be there with them.

Sherlock looked over at him, their eyes meeting. He didn’t say a word, just smiled back at John as if he were thinking the exact same thing.

John stood up and walked over to the sofa, bending over to kiss Sherlock softly on the lips. He sat down beside him and took his hand in his.

“H . . . happy . . . l . . . love?” Sherlock asked. 

“Unbelievably. That’s exactly what I was thinking. How did you know?”

“I . . . am . . . a . . . det . . . ec . . . tive . . . you . . . kn . . . know,” Sherlock said, smiling. 

John laughed and hugged him. “Indeed you are.”

Sherlock leaned his head against John’s shoulder as the two watched the fire together.

“How about you? Are you happy?”

“I . . . am . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . a . . . and . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . Rosie . . . h . . . here . . . at . . . t . . . two . . . t . . . two . . . one . . . B. You . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . feel . . . at . . . h . . . home. Th . . . this . . . is . . . the . . . o . . . only . . . h . . . home . . . I’ve . . . e . . . ever . . . r . . . really . . . h . . . had.”

“Not with your parent?”

“Th . . . this . . . is . . . b . . . better. I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . b . . . belong . . . h . . . here. M . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . I . . . e . . . ever . . . d . . . did . . . as . . . a . . . ch . . . child. I . . . a . . . always . . . f . . . felt . . . l . . . left . . . o . . . out . . . w . . . when . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . young . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . d . . . diff . . . erent.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. But I’m glad that you feel at home here. So do I, more than anywhere in my life.”

“I like it here too, Papa,” Rosie called from the kitchen table. “I really like my room and my cat and Gladstone and Uncle Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. If only Mummy was here. Then it’d be all good.”

John felt Sherlock stiffen slightly. “You okay?” he whispered.

Sherlock nodded quickly and settled again.

John got up and squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“Mummy’s still in the hospital. I don’t know when she’ll be out,” John said to his daughter.

“I wish I could go see her.”

“I know you do, dear. I wish I could take you to her. But for now, I think it’s best that she is where she is.” John believed that truly. He didn’t care at all about what Mycroft would do to her once the baby was born. He really didn’t. He wanted to do some things to her himself. But he knew he couldn’t. He owed that much to Rosie and the baby.

He glanced over at Sherlock, who seemed to be alright.

The next morning, they started on a new case out of the pile. John carefully took down the remnants of the last case from the wall so he could return the file to Greg, who was coming by later to pick it up.

He began going over everything slowly and carefully with Sherlock, hanging things on the wall where Sherlock indicated. He moved the sofa out of the way so that Sherlock could get closer to the wall and reach out and touch the reports and pictures. He used to just climb into the sofa to do it but couldn’t do that anymore. 

John had bought some red string and used it to connect things as Sherlock indicated.

Sherlock became frustrated when the physical and speech therapists arrived and even had a few snarky remarks for Dr. Cooper. He wanted to continue with detecting and didn’t want to be interrupted.

Dr. Cooper was pleased that Sherlock had gone back to detecting and to his music. He was also pleased with the progress that he and John were making in becoming more intimate with each other. Sherlock admitted that he had nightmares about being raped and still felt ugly and unattractive because of his scars, but he said that John’s acceptance of his scars had made him feel better about himself.

Mycroft stopped by after Dr. Cooper had left. He’d brought John a sonogram of his son. “The baby is completely healthy and growing fast.”

John looked at the picture of his son and felt a well of complex emotions. His child. He loved him already, but it would haunt him who his mother was. “He looks strong,” John said.

“C . . . can . . . I . . . s . . . see?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure.”

Sherlock took the picture and stared at it closely. A huge smile bloomed on his face. “Y . . . your . . . s . . . son. I . . . h . . . hope . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . looks . . . j . . . just . . . l . . . like . . . you.”

“Our son, love. Just like Rosie’s our daughter.”

Sherlock smiled at John. “It’s . . . s . . . so . . . ex . . . citing. M . . . maybe . . . you’re . . . r . . . right. M . . . maybe . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . another.”

Mycroft looked at both of them in confusion.

“I’d mentioned to Sherlock about having another child with a surrogate. Sherlock’s child.”

Mycroft gaped at both of them. “Really, Sherlock?”

“J . . . John . . . s . . . said . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . could . . . d . . . do . . . it. I . . . th . . . ink . . . it’s . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . idea.”

“Mummy and Daddy would be thrilled. I can certainly help you arrange it.”

“I think we should wait just a bit. Besides what are we going to do for room? We can’t put three kids in one room.”

“Perhaps 221C? I could have it fixed up as a room for Rosie and if it’s a girl, they could share or if it’s a boy, the two boys could take the upstairs room.”

“That sounds great. If Mrs. Hudson agreed.”

“S . . . she’d . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . happy . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . more . . . b . . . babies . . . in . . . the . . . h . . . house. I . . . c . . . could . . . use . . . m . . . my . . . tr . . . trust . . . f . . . fund . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . us . . . h . . . help. B . . . but . . . you’re . . . r . . . right. W . . . we . . . sh . . . should . . . w . . . wait . . . a . . . b . . . bit.”

“Besides, we have other things to prepare for, like maybe a wedding?” John said, taking Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smiled. “If . . . you’re . . . s . . . sure.”

“Of course I am. Can you arrange an annulment, Mycroft?”

“For you? Of course. But what are you going to tell Rosie?”

“She knows that Sherlock and I are in love and that I don’t love her mother anymore. She’s having a bit of a hard time with it, though I think she covers it up rather well. After the baby’s born, I’ll have to tell her something. It’s kinder, I think, to tell her that her mother died then to tell her what she did. I couldn’t tell her at this age, and I won’t in the future. She doesn’t need that burden. I hate lying to her, but I think it’s best in the long run. It’ll be awhile after that before we can get married. I want Sherlock to adopt Rosie and the baby and I’ll adopt Sherlock’s child.”

“You seem to have it all worked out,” Mycroft said.

“I . . . I’d . . . m . . . marry . . . you . . . t . . . today . . . if . . . I . . . c . . . could,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s hand.

“Me too. But we have to be patient.”

“L . . . like . . . e . . . every . . . thing . . . e . . . else,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“We’ll get there, love. Don’t worry.” John patted Sherlock’s arm. “Would you like some tea, Mycroft?”

“It’s been a stressful day. I’d love a nice cup of tea.”

The three of them sat and talked quietly until their tea was finished. Sherlock insisted that Mycroft look at his wall.

“Did you notice the smudge on the floor here?” Mycroft asked, pointing at one of the pictures.

“N . . . no. D . . . do . . . you . . . th . . . think . . . it’s . . . s . . . sign . . . if . . . icant?”

“Could be. It’s a rather conveniently placed smudge. It could indicate that they were worried about leaving footprints. Unique type of shoe, perhaps?”

Sherlock and Mycroft discussed the possible clue for a good half hour as John cleaned up the dishes and added his opinion every once and awhile.

When Rosie came home from school, she seemed pleased to see Mycroft. He pulled a stack of books out of his briefcase. 

“I thought you might enjoy these,” he said.

“Wow. Thank you. I can’t wait to read them,” Rosie said.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” John said, as Rosie went over to show Sherlock her books.

“As it appears that Rosie will be my niece soon,” he said quietly so Rosie wouldn’t hear. “I think it’s very appropriate that she expect gifts from both myself and my parents.”

“Don’t go overboard,” John said, smiling.

“Quite. But books are always a good gift. She does seem to like them.”

“She reads all the time. She’s doing very well at school. Rosie,” John called out, “why don’t you show Mycroft your plan for your science project?”

Rosie set down her books and pulled Mycroft over to her section of the wall. She explained in detail all of the steps and showed how each fit with the next.

“Very good. You seem to be quite prepared. When are you doing your project?”

“This weekend. Papa’s taking me to buy the stuff for it on Saturday. We’ll work on it on Sunday and next week. It’s due the week after.”

“It’s good to plan ahead of time. That way you can make sure that you have time for any unexpected problems. Very wise indeed.”

Rosie smiled at Mycroft, loving the praise.

After Mycroft left, John got Rosie working on her homework while he started dinner.

He heard her times tables and spelling words and checked over her homework before she put her books away.

That night, after Rosie had gone to bed, Sherlock and John worked on the case. Sherlock felt bad that he hadn’t noticed the smudge before Mycroft.

“I wouldn’t feel bad if I was you. You would have noticed it.”

“B . . . but . . . M . . . Mycroft . . . f . . . found . . . it . . . r . . . right . . . a . . . away. And . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . t . . . to . . . use . . . th . . . this. Th . . . there . . . w . . . weren’t . . . a . . . any . . . t . . . tracks . . . o . . . outside.”

“Maybe it isn’t a shoe track. Maybe it’s something else.”

Sherlock started thinking, staring at the smudge. After awhile, he looked at John, a bit of defeat in his eye. “I . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . it . . . is.”

“Let’s go on to the rest of the file.”

They worked until 11 p.m. before John could talk Sherlock into going to bed. He was disappointed with himself John could tell.

“They’re not all easy. Sometimes it would take days, even weeks for you to solve cases before. Don’t worry. You’ll get this one.”

And get it he did. Two days later, he was sitting staring glumly at the wall. John was cooking lunch when Sherlock shouted, “John!”

John literally jumped and hurried over. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

Sherlock was shaking and pointing at one of the pictures on the wall. “I . . . I’ve . . . g . . . got . . . it! I . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . the . . . n . . . next . . . d . . . door . . . neigh . . . bour.” Sherlock excitedly showed John the evidence and explained the motive.

John smiled brightly. “Told you you’d get it.”

“And . . . w . . . without . . . M . . . Mycroft’s . . . sm . . . smudge,” Sherlock said, smiling and obviously quite pleased with himself.

“Let’s call Greg.”

“You . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . talk . . . oth . . . er . . . wise . . . it’ll . . . t . . . take . . . h . . . half . . . th . . . the . . . d . . . day.” Sherlock’s stutter wasn’t getting much better, but there was a bit of progress. He seemed to have made his peace with it. His attitude seemed to be that so much else was wrong with him, what was one more thing?

John called Greg and explained Sherlock’s theory.

“Wonderful!” Greg said, excitedly. “That’s two for two. He’s really doing well. Maybe he’ll be back at crime scenes soon.”

“Maybe. Who knows? He continues to amaze me.”

Sherlock smiled, knowing he was the subject.

“I’ll be over shortly for the file and to make my notes.”

“See you then.” He hung up. “Greg’s on his way. He’s very impressed.”

“S . . . so . . . am . . . I. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . d . . . do . . . it.”

John started to unpin everything from the wall and laid out everything that was relevant on the kitchen table.

Sherlock looked at the other two files that were waiting for him. He felt better about himself than he had in a long time. He was useful again. He’d solved two unsolved crimes. His brain was working, at least in some ways. It wasn’t as fast as it was. He couldn’t deduce as easily. He missed his mind palace dreadfully, but it was gone. He and John had started to put together another one, but it wasn’t that big yet.

He wanted to read chemistry and forensics books to fill the rooms. Right now, he was depending upon observation. Soon he wanted to be able to get John to help him with experiments. He had some memories of his time at uni but not enough. It would take some time, but he was going to ask Mycroft to get him some textbooks so he could start studying.

Greg was very pleased with Sherlock’s solving of the murder and promised to bring him more cases once these ones were solved. In the middle of all of it, Dr. Cooper showed up.

Sherlock was disappointed, but Greg said that he had to get back to the Met anyway.

Sherlock told Dr. Cooper about his plans.

“That’s great, Sherlock. Continue your education and working for the police. I think it’s great for you. Great progress.”

“Th . . . that’s . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . t . . . too.”

“How are you and John making out?”

“We’re . . . c. . . con . . . tinuing . . . t . . . to . . . touch . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . other. J . . . John . . . b . . . bought . . . a . . . b . . . book . . . f . . . for . . . us . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . look . . . at. We . . . st . . . still . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . awhile . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . rush . . . th . . . things.”

“That’s a wise thing. What do you feel inside when John’s touching you?”

Sherlock explained that it was different with John. He had complete trust in him. He knew John would never hurt him. Just being able to touch his soft skin, smell him, taste him was enough to arouse him. He wanted so much more with John, but he was still a bit afraid that John wouldn’t enjoy sex with him because of what had happened. He knew John would be afraid of hurting or triggering him.

“That’s not an unreasonable fear. He loves you; of course, he’s concerned that he may hurt you. It’s only natural. Are you having nightmares about it?”

Sherlock confirmed that he was still having nightmares. But waking up from the nightmares in John’s arms was helping him to quickly calm down.

“That’s good. I can’t guarantee that the nightmares will ever completely go away, but they should lessen as time goes by. You went through an incredibly traumatic experience. It’s only natural that you have these reactions.”

Sherlock hated them. He hated that he couldn’t get his mind to behave. If he still had his mind palace, he’d have locked those memories up, like he had Moriarty, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with them. He made a note to himself to build a reinforced room to lock the memories away as soon as possible.

When the session was over, Sherlock asked John if they could start the next case.

“Don’t want a break? Maybe a little celebrating?”

“Wh . . . what . . . k . . . kind . . . of . . . c . . . cel . . . berating?”

John reached out and gathered Sherlock into his arms, walking over to the sofa and sitting down with Sherlock on his lap. “Maybe a little snogging?”

Sherlock smiled and leaned down to kiss John’s soft lips, wrapping his arms around him. He felt John’s hands come up and tangle in his hair. Sherlock loved these times, loved being close to John, feeling his hands on him, his lips, his warmth. He had never really realized before John just how warm another human being was. Other than short hugs from his parents, he’d never been around people that much. But he liked to think of John as his little furnace. He was so warm and cozy. His hand on Sherlock’s face was enough to warm him completely. And sitting now, surrounded by John, he felt warm and loved.

“I . . . l . . . love . . . you,” he said quietly.

“I love you, too.”

“You . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . thinking?”

“No, what?”

“H . . . how . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . r . . . real . . . ize . . . h . . . how . . . w . . . warm . . . o . . . other . . . p . . . people . . . r . . . really . . . w . . . were . . . u . . . until . . . you . . . st . . . started . . . t . . . touching . . . m . . . me.”

“Really? How could that be?”

“I . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . b . . . boy . . . f . . . friend. And . . . I . . . o . . . only . . . g . . . got . . . b . . . brief . . . h . . . hugs . . . f . . . from . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents.”

That hit John hard. He felt his stomach lurch as he squeezed Sherlock tightly. He felt so sorry for Sherlock, who’d been denied so much in his life, who’d had so much stolen from him. “Oh, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“It’s . . . a . . . alright. N . . . now . . . I . . . kn . . . know. N . . . now . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . you. Wh . . . when . . . I’m . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this . . . I . . . f . . . feel . . . w . . . warm . . . and . . . s . . . safe . . . and . . . at . . . h . . . home . . . and . . . wh . . . whole.”

“Oh, love,” John said as tears came into his eyes. He touched Sherlock’s face. “Really? I make you feel all of that?”

“Of . . . c . . . course. You’re . . . e . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me. M . . . my . . . w . . . world. You’re . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . un . . . universe, J . . . John.” Sherlock’s eye was bright as he smiled lovingly. “I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . I’d . . . d . . . do . . . w . . . without . . . you. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . l . . . live . . . any . . . m . . . more . . . w . . . without . . . you.”

“Don’t say that.” John could feel tears running down his face. “You had to be strong for all of your life. You deserve to let someone else be strong for you. To put you first. You’ve done so much for all of us. You’ve died for us, killed for us, suffered for us. Let us look after you. Let us put you first.”

“You . . . h . . . have . . . h . . . helped . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . al . . . ready.”

“And I’ll continue to. I love you, Sherlock. And I want what’s best for you, always.”

“Th . . . that’s . . . b . . . being . . . w . . . with . . . you.” Sherlock leaned over and kissed John again.

John smiled as Sherlock lapped at his lips, wanting entry. John obliged, and they continued to kiss until their lips were red and swollen. 

“For not having much experience, you’re a fantastic kisser.”

“G . . . great . . . t . . . teacher,” Sherlock whispered.

“You’ll make me blush,” John said.

Sherlock traced John’s lips with the tip of his finger. “G . . . go . . . a . . . ahead. You . . . l . . . look . . . c . . . cute . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . bl . . . blush.”

John could feel his face getting hot. “Sherlock . . .”

“Wh . . . what? You . . . d . . . do.”

John kissed Sherlock until both of them were out of breath. They heard the lift engage but neither moved.

“Oh, boys,” they heard as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped out. She was carrying a tray with a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw them. “Oh. Am I interrupting?”

“Y . . . yes . . . b . . . but . . . it’s . . . o . . . kay,” Sherlock giggled.

John lifted Sherlock off his lap and set him down beside him. “Tea and biscuits are just what we need,” he said smiling.

“I was feeling a bit lonely. I can come back later if you two want some more time together.”

“D . . . don’t . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . silly. W . . . we . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . st . . . stay.”

She smiled and poured the tea. They sat and talked about Sherlock’s success with his cases. Mrs. Hudson was so pleased for him and proud. “You’ll be back on crime scenes any time now,” she said. “Greg can’t do without you.”

“It . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . awhile. I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . b . . . better . . . at . . . th . . . this. I’m . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . st . . . start . . . st . . . studying . . . ch . . . chem . . . is . . . try . . . and . . . f . . . foren . . . sics. I’m . . . g . . . getting . . . s . . . some . . . b . . . books. I’m . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . re . . . b . . . build . . . m . . . my . . . mind . . . p . . . palace. It . . . w . . . will . . . t . . . take . . . a . . . awhile. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . as . . . pre . . . pared . . . as . . . p . . . possible.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at her watch. “Oh, can we watch the channel 5 news? They’re doing a story on planting hydrangeas that I wanted to see.”

“Sure,” John said as he turned the telly on.

They sat through the news and a few of the segments before Mrs. Hudson’s story came on. When it was over, John was going to turn it off when the announcer said there would be an exclusive story coming up next that only channel 5 would bring them. Curious, he left the telly on.

Sherlock was a bit droopy-eyed, his head resting against John’s shoulder. John was only half-listening as Mrs. Hudson and he wondered what the story could be about. The adverts ended and the news came back on.

“Coming up next . . .” the announcer said, “an exclusive report from our new correspondent, Kitty Lewis.”

Sherlock perked up and lifted his head. “D . . . did . . . h . . . he . . . s . . . say . . . K . . . Kitty . . . L . . . Lewis?”

“Wasn’t she the one . . .”

“W . . . who . . . b . . . believed . . . M . . . Mor . . . iar . . . ity. S . . . she . . . w . . . wrote . . . th . . . the . . . st . . . story . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . being . . . a . . . f . . . fake . . . g . . . genius.”

“She was ruined when the truth came out. Why would anyone hire her?”

Sherlock and John looked at each other, concerned. 

The announcer smiled cheerily and said, “Please join me in welcoming Kitty Lewis.” The camera cut to a smug-looking woman sitting to the right of the announcer. “Welcome to the Channel 5 family, Kitty.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here, Kent,” she said with a wide smile.

“I understand you’ve got an exclusive report for us.”

“Yes, I do, Kent.” She turned to face the camera. “As no doubt all of you know, the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, was kidnapped and tortured several months ago, leaving him badly injured and brain damaged. Channel 5 brought you the fascinating story of the kidnapping on this very program. Now, I can confirm that the former detective is leading an isolated, lonely life. His once-brilliant mind is lost to brain damage. He has few visitors, mostly consisting of medical personnel. His former partner, Dr. John Watson, appears to be a live-in doctor, paid to take care of him. Dr. Watson has been seen, sometimes with his daughter, walking the streets near Baker Street and performing errands.” 

Pictures appeared on the screen of John leaving and entering 221B and of Rosie getting into one of Mycroft’s cars to go to school. There were even pictures of Dr. Cooper, Sherlock’s nurses, and his physical and speech therapists. All of them were from the last few months.

“H . . . how did they get those pictures? Mycroft’s men are always around,” John asked. Sherlock remained silent, his eyes fastened to the screen. 

“The few times that Holmes has left the flat, things haven’t gone well for him.” A picture of Sherlock and John at the zoo flashed across the screen before a grainy video of the woman verbally abusing Sherlock. “In this instance, a trip to the zoo ended in this woman telling the injured detective that he shouldn’t be out in public because his facial scars had scared her daughter. Witnesses said that Dr. Watson was in line to get the pair lunch and didn’t see the confrontation which left the detective visibly upset and crying.”

John’s mouth fell open as he glanced at the shaking Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson was pale, her lower lip trembling. 

“Another outing to a cemetery was quite bizarre, with the detective, Dr. Watson, and a man since identified as Holmes’s brother visiting the gravesite of Holmes from when he faked his death. Holmes was visibly upset here as well, laying flowers at the grave and kissing the stone. He was physically ill before the three got into a waiting car and left.” Footage of the whole thing appeared on the screen.

“A subsequent trip to a nearby park started well but was derailed by a visit to a local McDonalds.” Grainy video from the McDonalds security camera showed Sherlock, John, and Rosie at the restaurant. “Witnesses said that Holmes seemed quite uncomfortable. His helplessness was easily seen as he had to be fed by Dr. Watson. Watson’s daughter played in the in-store playroom and returned to talk to Holmes and Watson. When she did, Holmes became violently ill and upset. A witness claimed to have heard the little girl ask Holmes if he was, and please forgive the ableist word, a quote unquote retard. Watson helped Holmes before confronting a man and his family and getting Holmes and his daughter out into a waiting car.”

Sherlock began to breath harder, his eyes full of tears. 

“The detective has recently had surgery to fix the scars on his face.” A picture from the other night when John and Sherlock had had dinner at Angelo’s with Greg appeared. “Here he is out for dinner with Watson and a man identified as Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Met, the man known to have used Holmes’s services on several well-covered murder cases. A customer at the restaurant at the same time confirmed to me that Holmes talks with a very pronounced stutter.

“It’s a shame that a man who’s done so much for London and the UK has been reduced to a brain-damaged, paralyzed burden. The police still have no leads on the whereabouts of the men who kidnapped, tortured, and raped Holmes, as many of you saw on the video that was released, and later taken down from, the internet. They seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth, so it’s very doubtful that they will face justice. One has to wonder if Holmes is able to comprehend the danger he is likely in. If these men return to finish him off, he would be completely defenseless.

“And that’s not the only question. Since Holmes returned to his flat on Baker Street, Dr. John Watson has lived there as well, with his young daughter. However, no one knows the whereabouts of Watson’s wife, this woman.” A picture of Mary and John appeared on the screen. “Mary Watson hasn’t been seen in months. She has also disappeared. We could find no record of her leaving the country or of Mary Watson living anywhere in the United Kingdom. Was she also taken by this gang of thugs? Has she been the victim of foul play as well? When questioned, the police would offer no explanation for her disappearance and informed me that there is no open or closed case involving her.” Kitty turned back to the announcer.

“Very interesting, Kitty. What a shame that this brilliant man has been reduced to nothing, likely a burden to his family and to society in general. Surely he would be better off in an institution, where they could look after his, no doubt, considerable needs.”

“He apparently has a rich benefactor who is paying for doctors and nurses to care for him.”

“Whose services could surely be better spent on the public, I would think. Still, one must feel sorry for him, his life now overshadowed by his mental disability and living a sad, lonely life. I would imagine, given the examples you gave, that he doesn’t want to be subjected to ridicule and derision. So we’re not apt to see him in public again.”

“It’s doubtful, Kent. Given his disabilities, I’m sure he doesn’t feel up to the stares and finger pointing. And this should finally put to rest all of those rumours that Holmes and Watson were lovers. Given that Watson was married, that should have finished that but the rumours persisted. Now that Mrs. Watson is out of the picture, I’m sure people will be talking again. No one knows Watson’s sexuality. It’s possible he’s bisexual. But it’s quite obvious that if they weren’t lovers before, they certainly wouldn’t be now. Given the extensive mutilation that Holmes suffered, it’s highly improbable that anyone would want to be his lover. I think it’s safe to say that Watson is merely Holmes’s carer. I imagine he feels pity for his friend, nothing more.”

“More than likely. And there seems to be a mystery worthy of Holmes’s former prowess in the disappearance of Mary Watson.”

“Indeed. It might just be a simple case of a wife leaving a husband, but it could have more sinister overtones. Was she, perhaps, murdered? That there is no open case with the Metro Police might suggest otherwise. However, they also may not want to comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“True. True. Congratulations on a first-rate story. Great footage, by the way.”

“I’ve had great help with the story, and I want to thank the people I interviewed and the photographers and videographers who helped me.”

The camera moved back to the announcer as he smiled and said, “Coming up next . . . we’ll have the seven-day forecast . . .”

John turned the telly off. All three sat in silence, except for the occasional sob from Sherlock. John wrapped his arms around him. 

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, tears in her eyes. “H . . . how did they get that information and those pictures? I was sure Mycroft’s men were surrounding 221B and following you when you went out. How could they not have noticed? And those awful lies about you and your condition . . . and the speculation about Mary and about you and Sherlock. It’s all so horrifying. So invasive. How can they get away with it?”

John’s mobile buzzed on the table in front of the sofa. He picked it up. “Hello?”

“I’m having the story killed,” Mycroft said. “Channel 5 obviously didn’t listen to me before. I’ll have Kitty Lewis’s hide. I warned the station owner once, and I won’t again. I’m going to have their license revoked.” Mycroft’s voice was hard and cold. 

“How did she get all of this, Mycroft? How did she get those pictures and videos?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be questioning my men. However, if she used a number of different people to take photographs, my men wouldn’t necessarily notice a random person taking one random photograph.”

“That’s true.”

“How’s Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. He’s crying. We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

“Let me speak to him.”

John put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock? Love? It’s Mycroft. He wants to speak to you. You think you can manage?”

Sherlock was curled in on himself, his whole body shaking. He looked up at John, tears falling from his eyes. The look of pain in his eye made John want to find Kitty Lewis and throttle her. Sherlock slowly reached out and took the mobile from John, holding it to his ear with a shaking hand.

“W . . . w . . . why? W . . . why . . . M . . . My?” The pain in his small voice made a lump come to John’s throat.

“I . . . I don’t know, Sherlock,” Mycroft admitted, his voice rough with held-back emotion. “A small, vindictive woman trying to use you to restart the career that you cost her? I don’t know, Sherlock. I really don’t. But I will find out. I promise you that. I will end any chance that she ever had to be a reporter in this or any other country. I will make sure Channel 5 loses its license.”

“B . . . but . . . th . . . the . . . d . . . damage . . . is . . . d . . . done. I . . . c . . . can ‘t . . . l . . . leave . . . th . . . the . . . fl . . . flat . . . n . . . now. P . . . people . . . w . . . will . . . m . . . make . . . f . . . fun . . . of . . . m . . . me.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“M . . . my . . . l . . . life’s . . . o . . . over. E . . . every . . . one . . . th . . . thinks . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . mentally . . . ch . . . challeng . . . ed . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . b . . . belong . . . in . . . an . . . in . . . sti . . . tu . . . tion.” Sherlock began to sob even harder. 

“Sherlock, please calm down. It will be alright. I will do everything I can to fix this.”

“S . . . some . . . th . . . things . . . c . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . f . . . fixed . . . M . . . My,” he sobbed and handed the mobile back to John before he curled into himself. 

“I’ve got to go, Mycroft. He’s very upset.”

“Of course.”

John hung up and gathered Sherlock into his arms. He hardly heard Mrs. Hudson’s low voice as she excused herself and went back downstairs on the lift.

Sherlock clung to John, his fingers tangled in his jumper. He seemed lost in his misery. 

“Oh, love. I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it all away. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

“N . . . n . . . n . . . no. I . . . it . . . w . . . w . . . won’t. I . . . c . . . c . . . can’t . . . I . . .” He continued to sob; his cries getting louder.

“Please, love. Please calm down. Your friends and family know better. We know that report was full of lies.”

“H . . . h . . . how . . . c . . . can . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . n . . . now?”

“I know you. I know who you are. I love you. I’ll always love you. She said I was just your caregiver. She couldn’t even be bothered to check with me. Probably knew I’d never speak to her.”

“B . . . b . . . but . . . you . . . s . . . sh . . . shouldn’t . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. You . . . d . . . deserve . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . better. P . . . people . . . w . . . will . . . th . . . think . . . l . . . less . . . of . . . you . . . f . . . for . . . b . . . being . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. You . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . away . . . f . . . from . . . m . . . me.”

“Never. Never. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me. You’re the man I love.”

“B . . . but . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . g . . . good . . . e . . . enough . . . f . . . for . . . you. I . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . e . . . ever . . . b . . . be . . . n . . . not . . . e . . . ever.”

“Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop it. You know I love you. It doesn’t matter what anyone says. They don’t know you like I do. You’re all I’ll ever want.”

Sherlock shook his head, sadly, and pulled away from John. “P . . . please . . . g . . . go. P . . . please . . . j . . . just . . . l . . . leave . . . m . . . me. I . . . I . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . think. M . . . my . . . h . . . head . . . h . . . hurts. Pl . . . please . . . j . . . just . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . bed. I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . rest.”

“I don’t want to leave you. You’re upset. You’re in pain. You’ve had a shock. You can just lay here with me. We’ll talk. It’ll be . . .”

“Pl . . . please . . . J . . . John.”

John sighed. “I’m worried about you, love. I’ll take you in to lie down for awhile, but I’m not leaving the flat.”

“J . . . just . . . l . . . let . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . be . . . in . . . p . . . peace.”

John picked Sherlock up and took him into the bedroom, tucking him into bed. 

“Cl . . . close . . . t . . . the . . . c . . . curtains,” Sherlock asked. 

John did as he was asked. “Do you want something to drink? A paracetamol for your headache?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Cl . . . close . . . th . . . the . . . d . . . door,” he whispered.

Reluctantly, John closed the door and leaned against it. He was angry, unbelievably angry, that someone had hurt Sherlock, yet again. If he could get his hands on Kitty Lewis, he’d strangle her. That horrible woman had ruined Sherlock’s life once and now had done it again. He knew that Mycroft would make sure that she never worked again. She had picked the wrong person to try and take down in order to build herself up. 

But more than the anger, he was filled with worry and fear for Sherlock. He’d been so happy lately. He’d gotten back his music and was solving cases. He was going to be Greg’s best man. Would this erase all of his progress? 

Sherlock’s first reaction had been to question their being together. This had made him doubt their relationship again. He knew that Sherlock loved him but was afraid that being with him would somehow hurt John. He knew it wasn’t logical, but Sherlock had been hurt so much during the past, he didn’t want to take the chance that his merely being in John’s life could hurt him. Although John knew it came from a place of deep love, it hurt him to think that Sherlock deep down in his heart of hearts believed that he wasn’t good enough for John. He thought that he’d been able to convince Sherlock that it wasn’t true, but something like this would seemingly always make Sherlock question his own self-worth. 

He shook his head, his heart breaking for his love. He sighed and sadly moved to the sofa, sitting down and turning on the monitor so he could hear if Sherlock needed him. He could hear Sherlock crying. There was absolutely nothing he could do. He could tell Sherlock over and over again how much he loved him, but Sherlock was hurt down to his soul. 

After John had left, Sherlock pulled the covers over his head and burrowed his head into John’s pillow. John’s scent comforted him. He wanted to be in John’s strong arms, but he needed to be alone. He needed to be able to think. He loved John more than anything he’d ever loved in his whole life. But he knew, absolutely knew, that he wasn’t good enough for John. He’d never felt good enough. 

When they’d first met, when he’d initially fallen in love with John, he’d known that. He was a drug addict. He was a massive arse, rude, and ignorant. He spent too much of his time being too proud for his own good. John deserved someone much, much better. Maybe that was why he never told John how he felt. And when he did tell him that he loved him, in his best man speech of all things, he knew that John had taken it to mean that he loved him as a friend and nothing more. 

It had broken his heart that John hadn’t loved him back. And he was sure that he’d lost him forever, especially when John ignored him for a month after the wedding. He’d gone back to drugs to try and heal his broken heart, at the same time berating himself for falling back into the habit as it further proved to him that he didn’t deserve John.

He pushed John towards Mary even after she’d killed him. All because he wanted John to be happy, and he believed that John was happy with her. How wrong he’d been. 

And now . . . John loved him. He knew that. He didn’t doubt it at all. But he still couldn’t believe that he would ever be good enough for him. John deserved someone strong, handsome, gentle, loving, smart, someone who could provide him with the adrenaline rush that he longed for. All things that Sherlock knew he could never give John again. 

He hated being like this. He had started to accept that things weren’t going to change: he wouldn’t ever walk, or ever have full use of his hands, or ever have full use of his mind. But . . . should he accept it? Should he just lie down and accept that he was horribly mutilated and brain damaged forever? But, then again, what choice did he have? He’d had his face and chest fixed, but there was nothing to be done about anything else. Maybe a skin graft could take some of the scars off of his back but certainly not all. He’d always prided himself on being intelligent, but that pride had backfired on him. Now he was ordinary — even less than ordinary. It had taken him days and days to solve those cold cases, when before it would have taken him no more than hours, unless it was a particularly difficult case. But neither of the cases he had worked on had been that hard in the end. 

He wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore. 

And if Sherlock Holmes hadn’t been good enough for John, then the person he was now certainly wasn’t. He felt awful for even having considered himself worthy of him. 

What John felt was pity. He had finally admitted to himself that he was bisexual (which Sherlock had deduced the first day that he had met him), so that wasn’t an impediment anymore. But John didn’t, couldn’t love the Sherlock he was now. John might have loved the Sherlock that was but he was gone. 

Sentiment. That’s what the Sherlock that was would have deduced. John felt sorry for Sherlock, for the old Sherlock and the life that he had lost. John only wanted to make Sherlock feel better somehow by pretending to love him. By pretending to make a home with him. 

John had declared that Sherlock was his best friend when he’d asked him to be his best man. Maybe that was it. Having never had a best friend before, Sherlock could only guess that perhaps this was the motivation. Being a best friend must involve making sacrifices. He’d made many sacrifices for John. All to keep him safe and happy. And it had cost him so much. 

This had to be it. Because John considered Sherlock his best friend, he must be sacrificing everything that would make himself happy in order to take care of Sherlock. Sacrifice and . . . guilt. Guilt over what his love for Mary had cost Sherlock.

It was all a sacrifice. It wasn’t love. Not the kind of love that Sherlock felt for John. It couldn’t be. 

“Oh . . . G . . . God,” Sherlock whispered as the realization hit him. John had sacrificed his happiness in order to make Sherlock happy by pretending to love him. To stop him from getting Mycroft to put him away in an institution. He was debasing himself by touching Sherlock’s hideous scarred body, by kissing and holding him. He was sure, if he could see inside John’s mind, he would see the disgust there. The real disgust as he looked at Sherlock’s body. 

John couldn’t want him. Couldn’t love him. It wasn’t possible. He wanted it to be true. Oh, God, he wanted it to be true. But John had seen him at his absolute worst, and it wasn’t getting any better. 

“Oh . . . J . . . John,” he sobbed as he let the revelation wash over him. “I’ve lost him,” he thought. “No . . . I . . . I never had him. He isn’t mine. He never was. And he never will be. All of this. All of it so he could look after me. He’s lying to me. Pretending to love me so I won’t be suicidal anymore. It’s all a lie. It’s not true.” Tears began to pour down his face as he gave in to the pain. He began to cry, sobbing louder and louder. The pain was unbearable. Waves of it crested higher and higher over him, pulling him under. Physical pain bloomed behind his eyes as his head began to pound. He clutched the sides of his head and began to scream as the physical and emotional pain built exponentially. He could barely hear Gladstone barking outside his door.

He wanted to throw things. He wanted to pull over his wardrobe, kick down the door, break the mirror John had bought him . . . he wanted the pain to go away. But it wouldn’t. He’d truly lost everything. There was nothing left for him now. Absolutely nothing. All he’d had left in his whole life was John. He’d lost his body and his mind and now his heart and soul were as twisted and destroyed as the rest of him. 

The pain went on and on, never ending. It felt like his whole life had been like this, and he couldn’t foresee any future where it wouldn’t be there. Moriarty had threatened to burn the heart out of him. And he’d tried. But it was the man Sherlock loved more than anything or anyone in the whole world who’d succeeded. For Sherlock was convinced, utterly convinced, that if they were to open up his chest and reveal it, they would find his heart as black as ashes.

He screamed louder and louder. He didn’t hear John open the door and shout his name. He didn’t feel the covers being pulled back or John grabbing him. 

The blackness closed in on him once more. And as it did, he prayed as hard as he could that this was the end and that he’d never wake again.

 

John had sat on the sofa listening to Sherlock weep. It broke his heart to hear it, but Sherlock had wanted to be alone. He didn’t know how he could make Sherlock feel better. He’d tried but Sherlock had pushed him away. It was something the old Sherlock would have done. He didn’t know what he could do. 

When Sherlock began to scream, he couldn’t take it any more. He charged into the bedroom and took him in his arms. “Sherlock, love. It’s okay. It’s alright. Everything will be fine. I promise.” 

Nothing he said could bring Sherlock out of it until he finally passed out. 

“Oh, God, love. If I could take this away, I would. Please don’t let her get away with this. Don’t let her win.” He pulled Sherlock closer and kissed the top of his head. 

It was hours before Sherlock woke up again. He laid in bed staring at the ceiling as John checked his heartrate, his blood pressure, his temperature. 

“Your vitals are alright, but they could be better. Are you in pain?”

Sherlock continued to silently stare at the ceiling.

“Sherlock, speak to me. What’s wrong?”

“D . . . don’t . . . b . . . bother. I . . . I’m . . . f . . . fine.”

“You’re not fine. I know you’re upset. I know you’re in pain. It’s going to be okay. You know she was lying. She made up most of that report. Mycroft called back. Channel 5 is history. They’re out of business, and the station’s gone black. He’s also filed a defamation suit against her for a few million pounds. She’s finished. She’s paying for what she’s done to you.”

Sherlock sighed and looked towards the window. 

“Do you want the curtains drawn back?”

“N . . . no.”

“How ‘bout a nice cuppa? I’ll get you some of Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.”

“N . . . not . . . h . . . hungry.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s been up here. She was worried about you. I’ve explained to Rosie that you’re upset. She said she’s sorry that you’re upset. You know she doesn’t want anyone to hurt you.” 

John looked as Gladstone jumped up on the bed and laid his head on Sherlock’s chest.

“There I know you’re upset. Please talk to me. Let me try to fix it.”

“N . . . no . . . o . . . one . . . c . . . can . . . f . . . fix . . . th . . . this,” Sherlock muttered sadly.

“Don’t let this get you down, love.” 

“D . . . don’t . . . c . . . call . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that,” Sherlock said quietly as he slowly and painfully rolled away from John. 

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Don’t say that. What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you believed that shite she was saying about you and me. How could you believe it? You know that I love you. And I always will.”

Sherlock said nothing, just closed his eyes and sighed again.

John talked and talked but Sherlock was too lost in pain to listen. 

Over the next week, Sherlock only got worse. He didn’t eat, barely drank, wouldn’t take his medication. He refused to talk to Dr. Cooper and wouldn’t take part in his physical or speech therapy. Once a day, he let Sam bathe him and then put him right back to bed. He wouldn’t come out of the room and insisted that the curtains remain drawn and the room in darkness.

Rosie tried to get him to read to her or play with her, but he politely refused, saying he didn’t feel well. She’d heard about the news report but didn’t believe the nasty things that were said about John, Sherlock, and her mother. John distracted her from Sherlock as much as he could. 

Mrs. Hudson was worried sick about Sherlock. She brought up tea and treats, but they went unconsumed. 

Mycroft visited often, sitting on the side of the bed and telling Sherlock that he mustn’t let the libellous report upset him. But Sherlock ignored him. 

John was so worried about Sherlock’s health, he wasn’t sleeping himself. Sherlock refused to sleep in his arms and turned away from him when he came to bed. It had gotten so bad that John had taken to staying on the sofa. John knew that Sherlock was in terrible pain since he’d stopped taking his pain meds, and he’d yelled and begged Sherlock to stop it. But nothing helped. 

Dr. Cooper finally pulled John aside after another hour spent talking to Sherlock’s back and getting no response. 

“John, this is serious. You say he’s not eating or taking his meds?”

“Not since that damned report aired on the telly. He will hardly speak to me or his brother or Mrs. Hudson. He’ll only speak to Rosie. He’s in tremendous pain, and there’s nothing I can do. I feel so absolutely helpless.”

“And he’s not taking his depression medication, either. John, this can’t go on. He’s going to do himself great harm.”

“He can’t harm himself intentionally.”

“Can’t he? What else do you call it? He’s refusing food and medication. He’s in great pain. He’s hurting himself every day.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think he needs to come back to the hospital. I want to try some intensive therapy and put him on new meds. If that doesn’t work, I think we’ll have to consider electroshock treatment.”

“Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“No. I know that it sounds barbaric, but, as a doctor, you know it’s safe.”

“He’ll never agree to it.”

“You have his power of attorney. As his psychiatrist, I will attest that he’s not mentally stable right now, which he isn’t. It’s within your power to have him committed.”

“He’ll never forgive me.”

“It’ll only be for awhile. If I can get him back on his meds and talking again, it shouldn’t be more than a few weeks.” 

“If you think it’s best.”

“I do. Bring him to the hospital tomorrow morning. I’ll have the paperwork ready for your signature.”

John showed Dr. Cooper to the door. He took the lift back up and walked to the bedroom door. He stopped, with his hand on the doorknob, and leaned his forehead against the door. This wasn’t going to be easy. Sherlock would never agree. But it had to be done if John was ever going to get him back. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened the door. 

Sherlock was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. What he was thinking about was anyone’s guess. John couldn’t stand to see him like this. Not after all the progress he’d made. All of that was lost. And, if John didn’t do something soon, everything would be lost.

“Sherlock, I’ve had a talk with Dr. Cooper.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“We’re both terribly worried about you. You won’t eat or take your meds. You barely take in enough liquid to keep you alive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to kill yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s for a second before they returned to the ceiling. 

“Oh, God. You are, aren’t you?”

“C . . . can’t . . . g . . . get . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . seven . . . p . . . per . . . cent . . . s . . . solu . . . tion,” he whispered.

John sat down beside him. “Please, Sherlock. You can’t let her get to you like this. You know she was lying about everything.”

“W . . . was . . . sh . . . she?” He rolled over and faced away from John.

“Sherlock, please.” John put his hand on his Sherlock’s shoulder. “Listen to me. Dr. Cooper wants you to go back to the institution for a little while. Just until he can get you over this.”

Sherlock turned over and looked at John. He couldn’t keep the hurt and anger out of his eye. 

“Sherlock, I know you don’t want to go. Dr. Cooper thinks you’d do better with more intensive therapy, and with getting your meds right. Neither one of us want you to keep hurting yourself like this. I know that you’re depressed. I know you’re in so much pain. You’ve stopped your physical and speech therapies. You won’t talk to Dr. Cooper. Ever since that damn woman’s report, you’ve lost yourself. I’ve tried but I can’t make you better. It won’t be for long. A few weeks at the most. I promise.” 

Sherlock fought the tears he could feel prickling in his eyes, the lump growing in his throat. So . . . this was it. The worst of his fears had come true. John had decided that he didn’t want Sherlock around anymore and was getting rid of him. He was sending him to a mental institution. If John still cared at all, he’d know that Sherlock would rather die then go back to that hospital. He was sure that John intended to put him there and find someone else – someone normal, someone whole. 

John tried to talk to him, but Sherlock wouldn’t say anything. 

Sam came in, bringing with him a glass of water. “Time for your drink, sir,” he said, as he helped Sherlock sit up. 

“We’ll talk later,” John said as he stood and left the room.

Sam got Sherlock to drink the full glass of water.

“D . . . did . . . you . . . h . . . hear . . . wh . . . what . . . J . . . John . . . s . . . said?”

“No, sir.”

“H . . . he’s . . . s . . . sending . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . away. I . . . w . . . won’t . . . n . . . need . . . you . . . a . . . anymore. M . . . my . . . b . . . brother . . . w . . . will . . . g . . . get . . . you a . . . j . . . job. Th . . . thank . . . you . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . all . . . you’ve . . . d . . . done . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me.”

“Sending you away?”

“In . . . sti . . . tu . . . tion. I’m . . . t . . . tired. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . sl . . . sleep . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . o . . . own . . . b . . . bed . . . once . . . m . . . more.”

“Alright sir.”

Sam helped him to the toilet, brush his teeth, and get dressed for bed before laying him down and closing the door.

“Is he okay?” John asked. 

“He’s going to sleep.”

“It’s only 3.” 

“He’s . . . upset, Dr. Watson. He told me he won’t be needing me anymore.”

“He gets like this. The old him did. He’s sulking.”

“I don’t think so, sir.” 

“I know he’s angry, but it’s the best thing for him. His doctor suggested it. I want him to get better.” 

“It’s none of my business, sir. But I really think you should talk to him.”

“I don’t know what the point would be, he won’t speak much to me at all.”

Half an hour later, Sam went in to check on Sherlock, who asked him to hand him his teddy bear. Sherlock took it and hugged it, wrapping himself around the toy. “You . . . m . . . might . . . as . . . w . . . well . . . g . . . go . . . h . . . home. W. . . will . . . you . . . c . . . come . . . in . . . the . . . m . . . morning . . . and . . . g . . . get . . . m . . . me . . . r . . . ready . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go?”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

Sherlock gave him a sad smile and thanked him, asking him to close the door when he left. Sherlock finally let the tears come as he clutched the bear tighter and allowed the first sobs to come. He heard John’s steps coming towards the door and wiped his eyes before closing them. 

John opened the door and sighed before coming in and sitting on the bed. “You might as well open your eyes, Sherlock. I know you’re not asleep.”

Sherlock refused to open his eyes.

John sighed again. “I know you’re angry. I know you don’t want to go. But, believe me, I would never send you there if I didn’t think it was good for you. I want you to get better, love. I can’t stand to see you in so much pain. I thought I could help you but I can’t.”

Sherlock wished he could believe John. He really wished he could. 

“I’m sorry it’s come to this. And I know it’s not your fault. Please, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock didn’t trust himself to open his eyes or to say anything. If John was getting rid of him, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of tears nor would he beg John not to send him away. 

“Sherlock, love. Please don’t be angry with me.” 

Sherlock felt John’s warm hand run through his hair. He didn’t move. He longed to feel John’s hands all over him, his lips touching his. But he knew he’d never feel it again. 

“Alright. You lay here then and sulk. Dinner’s in a few hours.” John got up and left the room. He heard small footsteps.

“Uncle Sherlock?”

“R . . . Rosie, c . . . come . . . l . . . lay . . . d . . . down . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me.”

Rosie smiled and crawled into bed under the covers with Sherlock. She laid her head on the pillow and smiled at him. 

“You’re not feeling well, Uncle Sherlock?”

“N . . . no. I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . better.” He knew he didn’t want to upset her. As he looked into her face, he knew he might never see her again. He couldn’t have loved her anymore if she was his biological child. He smiled at her and asked her to tell him a story.

As she told him a story about a unicorn and a princess, Sherlock felt his heart swell with love for her. He tried to memorize every expression, every syllable of the story she was telling. He was so scared he would forget her. And the thought of never seeing her grow up made tears come to his eyes.

“Why’re you crying?” she asked as she wiped the tears away.

“Your . . . st . . . story . . . is . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good. I’m . . . j . . . just . . . tired. W . . . will . . . you . . . st . . . stay. . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . awhile?”

She pulled the covers up. She kissed Sherlock on the nose and patted his cheek. She smiled at him as she closed her eyes. 

He kissed the top of her head and stared at her, watching her relax into sleep. He felt his own eyelids growing heavy, and before he knew it, he was asleep as well.

He woke hours later in a cold sweat and breathing hard. He had dreamed that John had left him strapped in a straightjacket in an asylum, coldly telling him that he had only felt pity for Sherlock and had never loved him. That he was leaving him there to rot. That he would find someone new. Someone who wasn’t an ugly, scar-ridden, brain damaged, crippled idiot. He’d begged John not to leave but John had laughed in his face and slapped him.

He looked around the room. It was still daylight. Rosie had woken and gotten up. He turned his head and looked at the clock. It was 7 pm. He was breathing hard, trying not to scream. Pain was ripping through his head, and he felt like it might explode. He couldn’t keep the whimpers from escaping as each heartbeat sent a jolt of pain through him. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. Tears escaped his squeezed shut eyes. He groaned loudly. 

He heard John’s footsteps. “Sherlock, are you okay?” John came in quickly and sat on the bed, causing a fresh wave of pain to explode in Sherlock’s head. “Migraine?” John asked.

Sherlock couldn’t even nod his head. All he could do was moan. 

“I’ll get your pain meds,” John hurried out into the kitchen for the pills. He could hear him picking up the phone and calling down to Mrs. Hudson, asking her to come up and look after Rosie. 

John came back, gingerly sitting down and lifting Sherlock’s pounding head from the pillow. Sherlock refused to open his mouth, even though John begged him. John laid his head back on the pillow and started to rub his temples very gently. If Sherlock could’ve pull away, he would have. But he still yearned for John’s touch, his smell, to hear him speak. This would be the last time he’d ever feel this. But he couldn’t concentrate on it. His head was pounding so hard. The pressure, the pain was rising higher and higher. He wished, he wished with all of his heart, that the pain would just take him. Kill him. Because it would be better to be dead then to know that John didn’t want him anymore. He couldn’t think. He could hardly breathe. He could hear himself moaning, keening in pain but he couldn’t stop it. It was almost a relief when the pain got so bad that he passed out. 

Sherlock woke hours later. It was dark. Every heartbeat sent a flash of pain through his head but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. John was asleep beside him. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lay his head on John’s shoulder and lay his hand on John’s chest but knew that it wasn’t wanted. He slowly and painfully turned over to face away from the man he loved. He started to cry, knowing this was his last night in his own bed, his last night at 221B. His last night with John. John was sending him away. He didn’t want him and never had. 

He wanted to wake John up and beg him to let him stay. To promise him that he would get better. To promise him that he’d make himself better. But, in his heart, he believed it was too late. And, more than anything in the world, he wanted John to be happy. And if John wasn’t happy with him, he deserved to be with someone who could make him happy. He knew that he was a broken and scarred shadow of the man that John had known. He had believed, though he didn’t want to, that one day John would realize there wasn’t enough left of that man in what he was now. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, had died in that warehouse. He was just a ghost. 

He tried to be quiet. He tried not to sob. He felt the hot tears running down his cheeks. He felt a lump growing in his throat that he was having problems swallowing past. He’d never thought it was possible for a heart to break. But his was. And it made him wish that he had died in the warehouse. Because this hurt worse than anything they had done to him. 

He felt John stirring and held his breath. “Sherlock?” he heard John say quietly. “Are you okay? Is your head still hurting?”

Sherlock lay absolutely still. He tried to calm his breathing. 

“Sherlock?” He felt John’s hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t want John to know that he was so upset.

“Sherlock? Please. I don’t want you in pain if you don’t have to be. Stop being so stubborn.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh. If John didn’t want him to be in pain, he wouldn’t be sending him away.

After a few minutes, John sighed and rolled back over. Sherlock waited until John was softly snoring before he sat up. He wished he could get out of bed and go out to sleep on the sofa. His head was throbbing and he did want some pain meds. He tried to ease himself onto the floor, swearing softly as his useless feet crumpled under him. He sunk heavily to the floor and onto his stomach, pulling himself out the door. Brad found him and, when he explained where he was going, lifted him up and laid him on the sofa. When Sherlock woke up, it was to John shaking him.

“Come on, Sherlock. Wake up. It’s nearly 9:30 and we have to be there by 11. How’s your head?”

Sherlock moaned softly.

“How did you get out here?”

“S . . . Sam?” Sherlock said. 

The nurse appeared at his side. “Yes, sir?”

“W . . . will . . . you . . . g . . . get . . . m . . . me . . . r . . . ready?” 

“Yes, sir.” Sam moved past John and picked up Sherlock. After a quick bath, Sam shaved Sherlock and brushed his teeth before carrying him in his room to dress him. They found John packing Sherlock’s bag. Sherlock sat looking at his hands in his lap as Sam dressed him and sat him in his wheelchair. 

“Breakfast is waiting for you,” John said. 

Sam wheeled Sherlock out into the kitchen. Sherlock continued to stare at his hands and refused to eat or drink. He asked Sam to take him back into the bedroom and to bring him Rosie.

Rosie came running in and climbed up onto Sherlock’s lap. “What’s wrong, Uncle Sherlock?”

“I’m . . . g . . . going . . . away . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . awhile. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . b . . . but . . . P . . . Papa . . . th . . . thinks . . . it’s . . . f . . . for . . . the . . . b . . . best.” He hugged her. “Pr . . . promise . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . something?”

“Any thing.”

“Pr . . . promise . . . you’ll . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . after . . . P . . . Papa . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me?”

“I will.”

“And . . . pl . . . please . . . pr . . . promise . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . a . . . always . . . re . . . mem . . . ber . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

“I promise. I love you, Uncle Sherlock.” She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him. 

John came into the room. “It’s time to go,” he said quietly. 

John took hold of the wheelchair after he helped Rosie down from Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock felt himself starting to shake. Mrs. Hudson was standing holding Rosie’s hand and smiling at him. 

She touched his shoulder. “It won’t be long now, Sherlock. You’ll be home soon.” She bent down and kissed his forehead.

He looked up into her face and didn’t see any hint that she wasn’t telling the truth. So, John had lied to her as well. He felt grateful to her and tried to smile at her. Rosie waved and smiled at him and he forced himself to smile at her until the lift closed. He looked down into his lap again. John closed the door behind them and stopped the wheelchair at the side of the van that Mycroft had made available for them. He opened the door and lifted Sherlock into the passenger seat, doing up his seatbelt. 

Sherlock heard a knocking sound and looked up to see Mrs. Hudson and Rosie in the window, smiling and waving. He waved back and smiled too. He heard John place his wheelchair in the back. As John got in the driver’s side, he said, “All ready?”

Sherlock ignored him as they pulled away. He looked back over his shoulder as long as he could to keep 221B in his sight. When they turned the corner, he looked down at his hands. 

He could feel John glancing at him. “It’ll all be okay,” John said quietly. “I promise. You won’t be there long.”

Sherlock wanted to believe John, but he knew it was a lie.

Neither noticed a car pull out of a parking spot by 221B and follow them.

As they arrived, Sherlock refused to look up. He squeezed his eyes closed as John reached in and pulled him from the seat, sitting him in his wheelchair. He continued to look down at his hands. He began to shake again. He was afraid. As they went through the door, the waft of hospital smell hit him in the face. He didn’t want to look around; he didn’t want to know this place. And he was more than convinced that his plan for escaping would be what was best.

He didn’t look up as John checked him in or when the nurse bent down to try and talk to him.

“He’s upset that he’s here,” John said. “He’ll be quiet for awhile.” It hurt to think that John was convinced that he was acting like this because he was sulking. 

He took no notice of his surroundings as he was taken upstairs. By now, he was quaking. He couldn’t stop the shakes.

“Are you cold, Sherlock?” John asked. They arrived in his room. It was small with just a bed, a wardrobe, a bedside table, and a chair. But at least he had the room to himself. His teeth were beginning to chatter. “Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked as he knelt down to look at him. He reached out and touched his forehead. “You don’t have a fever. How about we get you changed and into bed so you can warm up?”

“He’ll have to wear the pajamas from the hospital,” the nurse said. She pulled a pair out from the wardrobe. 

“I brought his own pajamas from home.”

“Sorry. He has to wear what everyone else does.”

“I’ve brought pants and socks too. He has to wear socks all the time. He’s got nerve damage in his feet, and they’re always cold.”

“You’ll have to wash his pants and socks yourself.”

“Sure.” John lifted Sherlock out of his wheelchair and onto the bed. He pulled Sherlock’s shirt off. He heard the nurse gasp as she saw Sherlock’s back. Sherlock mechanically allowed himself to be dressed.

“He has migraines and seizures. He’s suffering from PTSD. He’s got pain medication that he has to take.”

“It’s all been noted on his chart,” the nurse said.

“Will you turn down the bed?”

John lifted Sherlock and tucked him into the bed, pulling the quilts up to his neck. Sherlock curled on his side and tucked his head against the pillow. 

John pulled a picture frame out of the bag he’d brought with Sherlock’s clothes. 

“He’s not allowed to have that,” the nurse said.

“It’s a picture of us with my daughter.”

“It’s got a glass frame. He’s not allowed that.”

“Why?”

“He’s here for severe depression. He can’t have anything that could be used for . . .”

“He’s not suicidal,” John said.

“He’s not allowed.”

“Fine,” John said and stuffed the photo back inside the bag. John touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll bring it back in a plastic frame.”

Sherlock was sure that he’d arranged with the nurse to deny him his picture. He was sure once they got finished with drugging him that Sherlock wouldn’t remember much about his life before: his life with John. He knew he was going to end up with nothing of himself left intact while John went on with his life.

“It’s nearly lunch time. You’re going to have to go Dr. Watson.” 

“Dr. Cooper was supposed to meet with me.”

“He’s been detained with another patient. If you come back later, you can speak to him.” 

“Can I have a minute with him to say goodbye?”

She smiled at him. “Yes, of course.”

“Sherlock,” John said as he sat down beside him and touched his face. “Please don’t be angry with me. Please know that I’m doing this to help you. And you’ll be coming home soon. I promise.” John was running his hand through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock couldn’t bear to look up at John because he knew that he’d start to cry. At least John was trying to be nice. John stood up and leaned down to place a tender kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. 

As John left, he heard a small voice say “G . . . good . . . b . . . bye . . . J . . . John.” It was the most broken he had ever heard Sherlock’s voice. He almost turned back but the nurse insisted that he leave.

 

Sherlock laid on his bed, and let the tears come. He started preparing himself for his escape. Half an hour later, he was half asleep when a nurse came through the door with his lunch. She took the bed controls and moved it so he was sitting. She asked him how he was and if he was in any pain. She handed him his pills. He looked at them with contempt. She pulled the top off the plate to show a cup of soup and a sandwich. A cup of tea sat on the side. But he turned back on his side and pulled the covers up to his shoulders. 

She told him that he had to eat. He ignored her. After ten minutes, she went looking for Dr. Cooper. 

Dr. Cooper came through the door a few minutes later. He took one look at Sherlock and sat down beside him. “What’s this I hear that you aren’t being cooperative?” he said.

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . your . . . p . . . pills,” he said in a flat, dead whisper. “I . . . kn . . . know . . . you’re . . . w . . . waiting . . . t . . . to . . . p . . . put . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . a . . . str . . . aight . . . jacket . . . or . . . t . . . tie . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . the . . . b . . . bed . . . and . . . f . . . force . . . th . . . them . . . on . . . m . . . me. I . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . why . . . I’m . . . h . . . here.”

“Sherlock, we’re not going to put you in a straightjacket. You’re here because of this severe bout of depression. We’re going to get you better. Get your meds right and then you’re going home. I’m hoping that it won’t be anymore than a week or two.” 

Sherlock turned to look at him, and his eye was so devoid of hope and so full of pain that Dr. Cooper winced. “N . . . no,” he said. “J . . . John . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me. He’s . . . g . . . getting . . . r . . . rid . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . by . . . s . . . sending . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . here.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t love you?”

“H . . . he . . . n . . . never . . . d . . . did. He . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . felt . . . s . . . sorry . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. He’s . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . pre . . . tending. N . . . now . . . he . . . c . . . can . . . f . . . find . . . s . . . someone . . . e . . . else . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . raise . . . his . . . d . . . daughter . . . and . . . th . . . then . . . f . . . forget . . . m . . . me. I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . m . . . make . . . h . . . him . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . can’t. I . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . him . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . l . . . life . . . s . . . so . . . I’ll . . . g . . . go . . . s . . . so . . . he . . . and . . . R . . . Rosie . . . c . . . can . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . happy. Th . . . they . . . d . . . deserve . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . best . . . and . . . th . . . that’s . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . me.”

“Sherlock, please believe me when I say that John loves you more than anything. I talked him into sending you here. He didn’t want to. He only wanted you to get well.”

“D . . . don’t . . . w . . . worry. You . . . w . . . won’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . take . . . c . . . care . . . of . . . m . . . me. I’ll . . . g . . . go . . . away.” He smiled sadly.

“Where are you going?” Dr. Cooper asked, warily.

“B . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . the . . . w . . . ware . . . house,” he whispered in a broken voice. 

“But they tortured you there.”

“Wh . . . what . . . th . . . they . . . d . . . did . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . hurt . . . l . . . less . . . th . . . than . . . kn . . . knowing . . . th . . . that . . . J . . . John . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me.” His eyes flashed to Dr. Cooper’s briefly before he closed them. 

“Sherlock,” Dr. Cooper said, concerned. “Sherlock, wake up.” 

When he opened his eyes again, Dr. Cooper sighed in relief but when he looked into his eye, it was blank. Like there was no one there.

Dr. Cooper tried all he could to wake him up but Sherlock had retreated so far into himself that nothing worked. 

An hour later, Dr. Cooper was on the phone to John. “John, listen you better come back right away.”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Sherlock’s retreated into himself. We can’t wake him up.” 

“He hasn’t done that since before he was kidnapped. He used to go into his mind palace, but it’s gone. What happened?”

“John, this won’t be easy for you to hear but he’s convinced himself that you put him here to get rid of him. He thinks you don’t love him and want him to spend the rest of his life here, drugged and in a straightjacket.”

“What?” He could hear John’s intake of breath. 

“He said he was going back to the warehouse. He said it was less painful there then to stay here and know that you didn’t love him.”

“Oh . . . God. He . . . I thought he was just angry. I thought he was sulking. I thought that’s why he wasn’t speaking to me. My daughter told me that he said goodbye like he wasn’t coming back. He asked her to look after . . . me. I’ll be right there.”

It wasn’t long before John burst into the room. He moved to Sherlock’s side and reached out to touch his face. “Sherlock?” He could see that his eye was empty. Sherlock’s body was there but everything that made him what he was was gone. John felt tears forming in his eyes and made no move to wipe them from his face. “What have I done?” 

Dr. Cooper reached out a hand to him. “I’m sorry, John. We couldn’t have known.”

“I should have. I should have known. When he woke up in the hospital and found out that he’d never be the man he was before, he made plans to kill himself. He didn’t want anyone to see him like that. When I think about it, how much he hated himself, I should have known. Oh, God.” He put his head in his hands and began to sob. “What have I done to him?”

“We’ll try our best. Sit with him. Talk with him. Tell him how much you love him and need him to come back. Tell him how much you need him.”

John nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Sherlock’s hand in his and pressing a kiss to the back of it while he reached out and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sherlock, love? Please come back. Please come out of the warehouse. Come back to me. Come back to our life. I promise. I promise you that as soon as you wake up, we’ll go home. I promise. You need to come home. Rosie misses you. I miss you. We need you.”

John sat and talked for hours telling Sherlock how much he loved him. Occasionally, Sherlock’s body would jerk and John’s hopes would rise before he finally realized that Sherlock was reliving the horrible tortures that he’s been subjected to. He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft. 

“Yes, John. What can I do for you?” Mycroft asked. “Is Sherlock alright?”

“No. No, Mycroft. He’s not alright.”

“What’s wrong?” John could hear the concern that Mycroft normally kept hidden well up in his voice.

“I made a mistake, Mycroft. I made a big mistake. Ever since that damned news report, he’s been losing more and more of himself. He’s been so depressed. He’s been in so much pain. He stopped all of his physical therapy. He’s given up on ever getting better. He wouldn’t speak to his therapist. Dr. Cooper suggested that I sign him back into an institution, get him on the right meds, get some intense therapy . . .”

“You WHAT?” Mycroft shouted in his ear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I . . .”

“He told me that he didn’t want to go into an institution but would if you left him because he knew that his life was over.” 

“Mycroft, I didn’t know.” 

“Of course, you didn’t. He thought you were trying to get rid of him. How is he?”

“He’s withdrawn into his head. He . . . he told his therapist that he was going back to . . . the warehouse. He said it was less painful there then to live here knowing I didn’t love him. Mycroft, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been sitting here talking to him for hours, begging him to wake up, but he’s not responding. He’s suffering. I know it. He keeps twitching, jerking. I know he’s reliving the torture he went through.” John made no move to wipe the tears falling from his eyes or keep the tremble out of his voice. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, John. He’s heartbroken. You said he was depressed. You know how he was when he woke up from the coma. He doesn’t think he’s worth anything. He thinks you don’t want him and have left him there to die. That you took him away from his only real home. And I guarantee you that he thinks he’s doing this so that you will be happy. He’s taken himself away as far from you as he can short of death so that you’ll find someone else and be happy.”

“The doctors have tried to wake him up. Nothing’s working.” 

“Stay with him, John. I never thought my brother was capable of loving anyone. But you proved me wrong. He’s made a wrong conclusion based on the evidence that he was presented with. Talk to him. Tell him he’s wrong. Tell him that you love him. Tell him that you’ll take him home as soon as he wakes up. Tell him that he’s the most important thing in your life.” 

“He is the most important thing in my life.” 

“Make him believe it.”

John sat for days talking until he could hardly speak. He was exhausted and Mycroft forced him to go home and rest. 

That night, a nurse silently entered Sherlock’s room. She put down the clipboard she was holding and pulled back Sherlock’s covers.

“Poor Sherlock. All alone. So alone. Your little guardian angel isn’t here to protect you. Your brother and his men.” She pulled a knife out of a pocket. She held it above her head with both hands and stabbed down, savagely, striking Sherlock in the shoulder. 

Sherlock jerked awake, moaning loudly. He looked around, wild-eyed, and spotted her.

“Ah, so you’re awake now,” she purred.

“K . . . K . . . Kitty?”

“Careful, you don’t want to fall off the bed. I’ve come to look after you.” 

“You . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me.” His hand clutched his shoulder as the blood began to pour. 

“Of course I do. You ruined my life . . . twice. But before I do any more damage, I should let you know that everyone has abandoned you. It’s been 6 months since you went under, Sherlock. No one’s been to see you. John’s got a girlfriend he’s going to marry in a few days.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and showed Sherlock a picture of John walking with a woman. “Your family hasn’t come by.”

Every word was like a slap to Sherlock’s face. So he’d been right and John had just wanted to be rid of him. He felt tears come to his eyes. 

“Awww. Is little Sherlock sad? Good. You son of a bitch.” She lifted the knife over her head again and stabbed Sherlock once in the chest and once in the lower abdomen. 

Sherlock tried to stop her but couldn’t. The pain was overwhelming.

“You’re going to die here all alone.” Sherlock was barely conscious when she kissed the tip of her finger and touched it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock could feel himself losing consciousness. And he whispered “John” before the blackness took him.

Out in the hall, Kitty pulled out a mobile and placed a call. 

“Hello?”

“Dr. Watson?”

“Yes, this is John Watson. Can I help you?”

“Dr. Watson, this is Dr. Wilson from the hospital. Mr. Holmes is awake and he’s asking for you.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, sir. Could you come as soon as possible?”

“I’ll be right there. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re more than welcome, sir.”

Kitty laughed as she hung up and started down the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, John stepped off of the elevator. The security people at the front desk hadn’t wanted to let him through and one of them accompanied him. 

John opened the door to Sherlock’s room and gasped. “Sherlock!” he screamed, running to him. He felt at his neck and was relieved to find a weak pulse. His lips were tinged with blue.

He ran to the door. “Help! I need help, now!!”

He could hear people running down the hall. The doctor, nurses, and security guard burst through the door, all stopping in shock at Sherlock’s wounds. 

“We need to get him downstairs. He’s lost way too much blood.”

They hurried him downstairs and into the institution’s operating room. John found himself sitting in the waiting room. He looked down, his hands covered with Sherlock’s blood. “Oh, God,” he whispered, closing his eyes. He couldn’t lose Sherlock. He just couldn’t. Not with him thinking that John didn’t love him. A nurse came by and showed him to the nearest toilet. He washed and went back to the waiting room. With trembling hands, he got out his mobile and phoned Mycroft. 

“John? Why are you calling so late?”

“It’s Sherlock. Mycroft, oh God, Mycroft, he’s been attacked. Someone called me and told me Sherlock was awake. I came down. I found him in his bed. He was stabbed three times. He lost so much blood.” He dissolved into sobs as he put his hand to his mouth.

“How? How could this have happened?”

“I don’t know. I should have stayed. I should never have left.”

“You were exhausted, John. You couldn’t have stayed any longer. I’ll be right there.”

John turned off his phone and sat back. He let the tears come. He’d come so close again to losing the most important thing in his life. The loss of Sherlock had nearly killed him the first time. He couldn’t imagine going through it again. 

Twenty-five minutes later, Mycroft showed up. “Any word?” he asked.

“No. He was stabbed in the chest and the abdomen. It’s going to be awhile.” 

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments. “I’ve got my best men on it. They’ll find out how she did it. A nurse was found unconscious in one of the loos. Her uniform and ID were taken. I’m guessing it was Kitty Lewis. The nurse somewhat looked like her.”

“I don’t care how she did it,” he said, with a sigh. “Find her. I don’t care what you have to do or who you have to deal with, find her. And when you do, I want to be there.”

Mycroft nodded. 

Several hours later, a doctor came towards them. “Dr. Watson?” he asked.

John and Mycroft stood.

“Mr. Holmes has been treated. He lost a lot of blood. We’ve transfused him to get his blood volume back up. We’ve sowed up his shoulder, reinflated a lung, and repaired his intestines.”

John swore under his breath and felt the tears come again. He felt Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder.

“Can I see him?”

“I’m afraid there’s more. Due to the damage to his intestines, his system has been flooded with bacteria. He’s already showing signs of infection. We’ve started him on the strongest antibiotics that his system can stand. He’s unconscious now. But you can sit with him.” 

John and Mycroft were led to a small room, where Sherlock laid. He was as pale as he’d been after the kidnapping. His chest was bare, the blankets tucked under his armpits. An IV dripped into the back of his hand. A feeding tube snaked out of his nose. John moved to him and took his hand. Already, he could feel the heat coming off of him. His forehead was dotted with sweat. 

“Oh . . . my,” Mycroft said from the door. 

“Do you see?” John whispered. “Do you see what that bitch has done to your little brother?” 

“I promise you that she’ll pay. I promise both of you.” Mycroft had moved to John’s side and put his hand on John’s shoulder. 

“This might be it,” John said, trying to pull himself together. “Sherlock’s already in a weakened condition. He’s depressed and thinks no one wants anything to do with him. And this . . . He’s already spiking a fever. It could get high enough to cause even more brain damage. He could get pneumonia. He might never wake up before he . . . I can’t lose him, Mycroft. I can’t lose him. He and Rosie are my whole life. I can’t go on without him.” 

“You won’t have to,” Mycroft tried to sound reassuring, but he was doubting his brother’s ability to survive this. “Sherlock’s too stubborn.” 

John sat down beside Sherlock and put Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, kissing it. “Don’t you leave me. I’ll never forgive you if you do.” He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, wincing at the heat coming off of him.

By the next morning, John was exhausted, but he smiled when Sherlock’s eyes began to flutter and slowly open. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“Mmmm,” was all he got back. He looked closer and was disappointed to find Sherlock’s eyes glassy. Sherlock moaned. John’s eyes flashed to the machines reading Sherlock’s vitals. His temperature was nearly 40 degrees. Two more degrees and brain damage would begin. 

“Sherlock, love,” he said as he dipped a flannel in cold water and draped it over Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re in the hospital. I’m with you. I’ll always be with you. Please wake up. Please get better.”

“J . . . John?” he heard a weak voice whisper.

“Yes,” John said, smiling. “Yes, love. I’m here.”

“N . . . no . . . J . . . John’s . . . n . . . not . . . h . . . here. J . . . John . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me. J . . . John . . . g . . . got . . . r . . . rid . . . of . . . m . . . me.” 

“No, Sherlock. Please, please believe me. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“J . . . John’s . . . g . . . gone. J . . . John’s . . . g . . . gone.” Sherlock’s voice was so full of pain, John winced. 

He leaned down and took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Sherlock. Look at me. Look at me. It’s John. Your John is here. Your John loves you more than anything.” 

“N . . . no. J . . . John’s . . . g . . . gone. J . . . John’s . . . m . . . marrying . . . s . . . someone . . . e . . . else. J . . . John . . . l . . . left . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . here . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . die.” 

Each of those words was like a knife to John’s heart. “No. Never. Never. John loves you. John will always love you.” 

Sherlock weakly shook his head. “K . . . Kitty . . . s . . . said . . . s . . . so.” 

“She lied to you. The two of us will be together. As soon as you’re well, as soon as you can, we’ll go home. You and I will go home, and it’ll just be Sherlock and John and Rosie. And maybe Mrs. Hudson to make us biscuits every once an awhile. We’ll watch crap telly when Rosie goes to bed and I’ll hold you and protect you. And I’ll kiss you. And I’ll tell you every day how much I love you. And you’ll never, ever doubt that I love you. I promise. But you have to get better. You have to wake up for me. You have to, my love.”

“N . . . no . . . I’m . . . b . . . bad. I’m . . . n . . . no . . . g . . . good . . . f . . . for . . . J . . . John. H . . . he’s . . . b . . . better . . . off . . . w . . . without . . . m . . . me. He’ll . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . happy . . . w . . . without . . . m . . . me. J . . . John . . . n . . . needs . . . s . . . someone . . . wh . . . whole . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . me.” 

“Please believe me.” John leaned closer to Sherlock’s left ear. “John loves you. John will always love you. Please believe me.” 

John turned when Sherlock’s doctor came through the door. “How is he this morning?” 

“His fever’s up another 0.2 degrees. We need to get it down. He’s awake, but he’s delirious. He doesn’t know it’s me.” 

“I’ll start a stronger antibiotic. We’ll get him into a lukewarm bath with more IVs. His bloodwork isn’t looking good, John.”

John felt his heart sink. He’d thought as much. “Give him the antibiotics and the bath. I’m not losing him again.”

“We’re doing all we can, John.”

“I know that. But, damn it, there’s gotta be a way to make him better.” 

John helped them get him into the bath. Sherlock was so hot that the lukewarm water felt freezing cold to him, and he began to flail, trying to get away from it.

“Shhhhh, stop it, Sherlock. We’re trying to help you.” 

“N . . . no,” he whispered. He began to plead in another language. It took a few moments before John realized it must have been Serbian. Sherlock was reliving his torture in Serbia. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, it’s okay! You’re okay! We’re trying to help you. Lay still. It’ll be okay.”

Sherlock gradually lost strength and passed out. John held him up as they submerged him up to his neck. They left him in for awhile and John helped lift him out and rebandaged his chest, shoulder, and abdomen. His fever went down by a bit more than a degree. And Sherlock seemed to be sleeping peacefully. The antibiotics, he hoped, would help. He examined the wounds on his stomach. They were inflamed and swollen. The smell of infection was strong. He rubbed alcohol over the wounds, glad that Sherlock was unconscious, knowing it would be very painful. He heard a gasp behind him. 

He turned and saw Mycroft standing at the foot of the bed, staring at Sherlock’s wounds. 

“It’s one thing to hear about it, quite another to see it,” John said as he rebandaged Sherlock and pulled the covers up to his chin. 

“H . . . how is he?” Mycroft asked. John looked up. He’d never seen Mycroft so . . . broken. 

“His fever’s down almost a degree after a lukewarm bath and new antibiotics but he’s no where near out of danger yet.” 

“I’ve been making inquiries about possible new antibiotics. There are some experimental ones that are stronger than what the doctors here have access to.” 

“I’d rather not use Sherlock as a guinea pig, but if he gets much worse, we may have to consider it. I don’t know if he’s strong enough. He’s been awake, but he’s delirious. He didn’t know it was me. I kept telling him how much I loved him, and he kept saying that I didn’t love him at all and left him here to die. When we put him in the bath, he started begging, I think in Serbian. He must have been reliving his torture.” 

John sat beside Sherlock and took his hand. 

“You look exhausted,” Mycroft said. “You should go home.”

“No. Not until I know he’s going to be okay. Last time I left, Kitty attacked him. I couldn’t bear it if something happens to him while I’m home.” 

“I’ll arrange for a bed to be put in here so you can stay with him.” 

“Thank you, Mycroft.” 

A few hours later, Mrs. Hudson came to visit, bringing John something to eat and telling him that Rosie was fine. Molly and Greg were looking after her and would be spending the night. John slowly ate the soup and sandwiches that Mrs. Hudson had brought. Sherlock’s temperature was holding nearly steady but had gone down 0.1 degrees since the antibiotics had started. When they brought in a bed, John pushed it next to Sherlock’s bed and, removing his shoes, laid down, pulled the covers up, and took hold of Sherlock’s hand. He fell asleep almost immediately. He didn’t wake up when the nurses came in and out to take blood from Sherlock and check his readings. 

It was nearly 6 a.m. when John felt Sherlock’s hand slip from his. He woke immediately as Sherlock began to move and moan. John sat up and slipped off the bed. He looked up at the machines and swore. His temperature was back up, hovering just under 41. He felt tears burning down his cheeks. “No, Sherlock. No, please.” The movement stiffened his body as John realized that Sherlock was beginning to seize. He hit the panic button as Sherlock’s body began to thrash. He turned Sherlock’s head so he wouldn’t swallow his tongue. A nurse hurried in.

“He’s going into convulsions!” John yelled over his shoulder. A team surrounded Sherlock, turning his whole body to the side. It took almost a minute before the thrashing stopped and Sherlock began to cough, the breath rasping in and out. John took a stethoscope from one of the nurses and listened to Sherlock’s breathing. He swore. 

“His breathing is laboured. We’ll need a culture to check for pneumonia.” The nurses and orderly hurried to do as he asked as Sherlock’s doctor came into the room.

“He’s gone into convulsions. His breathing is off. They’ve taken a culture to check for pneumonia.” He could hear the breath rattling in Sherlock’s chest. 

“John,” the doctor said gently. 

“We have to do something. Another degree and there’ll be brain damage.”

“John. We’ve put him on the strongest antibiotic that we have. He’s too weak to fight off the infection.”

“No!!” John yelled. “You are not going to stand there and tell me that he’s going to die. I won’t allow it.” He turned back to look at Sherlock. The man he loved so much. The man who had given up everything for him, who had died for him, had killed for him. Who’d sacrificed his whole life to keep him safe. “Sherlock Holmes will not die a victim of that madwoman. I will not allow it.” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s burning hot skin, rubbing his thumb over one of his cheekbones. “Sherlock, listen to me. Sherlock, don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare. Fight, love. Fight for me. Fight for Rosie. Come back to me. Please.” He squeezed Sherlock’s limp hand. “Fight for us. Live for us. Please. Don’t go where I can’t follow you.” 

Sherlock drew in a raspy breath and exhaled. John sat beside him, running a cool cloth over his head, counting each breath, counting each heartbeat. The doctor returned later, confirming that pneumonia was setting in. 

John pulled out his mobile. “Mycroft,” he said. “Get the experimental antibiotics. Get them now!”

“Is he worse?”

“He’s developed pneumonia and has already gone into convulsions. His temp is 41.2. The doctor here is giving up on him. Please Mycroft. Please.”

“They’ll be to you within 20 minutes.” 

Good to his word, Mycroft and a medical team showed up 20 minutes later. They injected Sherlock with the antibiotics. The doctor in charge told John that there was no guarantee that it would work, given Sherlock’s weakness. The team stayed right in the room, Mycroft’s threats being enough to force the hospital’s team away. 

John continued to count the minutes, the breaths, the heartbeats. Sherlock’s temperature stopped climbing at 41.5 and hovered there. He struggled for each breath, the rattle becoming more pronounced.

John hung his head. He knew what this meant. Sherlock was getting too weak to breath for himself, the infection was winning. His temperature was steady and undoubtedly causing damage. Sherlock wasn’t coming back. His love was slipping away, and he’d never felt so helpless in his life. 

Sherlock’s eyes opened and looked at John. He looked like he had no idea why John was there. 

John was sure this was it. The moment of lucidity before death. He smiled at Sherlock. “Hey, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Sherlock, please, please know that I didn’t put you here to get rid of you. I love you. I’ll always love you. You’re my whole life. I just wanted you to get well. Get better okay. Get better and as soon as you’re strong enough you’ll come home with me. Rosie misses you. I miss you so much.” He felt Sherlock weakly clutch his hand. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He kissed Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears as he tried to smile at John. 

“J . . . John,” he weakly whispered. And it was the most beautiful sound John had ever heard. “I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . l . . . love . . . you. O . . . only . . . you. O . . . only . . . you . . . e . . . ever.” 

John bent down and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s burning hot forehead. “You’re my whole world, Sherlock. Please, please fight. I love you.”

“M . . . My?” Sherlock asked. 

“I’m here, little brother. We’ve got a whole team of doctors here using experimental drugs on you to try and get you to stop being so dramatic.” 

Sherlock smiled slightly. “Pr . . . promise . . . m . . . me . . . M . . . My?”

“Anything you want, Sherlock. Anything.”

“L . . . look . . . a . . . after . . . J . . . John . . . and . . . R . . . Rosie . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me?”

“I will. I promise.”

“No, Sherlock. Don’t do this. You’re gonna be okay,” John said. 

Sherlock nodded at Mycroft and turned his eyes back to John. “Al . . . always . . . kn . . . know . . . I . . . l . . . love . . . you,” Sherlock whispered. “Al . . . always. You . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . happy . . . J . . . John. Pl . . . please . . . t . . . tell . . . R . . . Rosie . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . her. Pl . . . please.”

“You can tell them yourself. Please Sherlock, don’t talk like this.”

“W . . . will . . . you . . . d . . . do . . . o . . . one . . . th . . . thing . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me? J . . . just . . . o . . . one?”

“Whatever you want.” 

“H . . . hold . . . m . . . me.” 

“Sherlock, you’ve been stabbed. It’ll hurt.” 

“E . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . h . . . hurts . . . al . . . already.” 

John leaned over and carefully pulled Sherlock into his arms. It scared him how little Sherlock weighed. Sherlock inhaled sharply in pain leading to long minutes of hacking coughs. He settled the side of his head against John’s shoulder and his forehead against John’s neck as he struggled for breath. He curled his hand in John’s jumper. 

“You’re . . . w . . . wearing . . . m . . . my . . . fav . . . orite . . . j . . . jumper.” 

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He felt like his heart was breaking.

“I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I’m . . . s . . . safe. I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I’m . . . h . . . home.” 

John began to sob as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and leaned his cheek against it. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t gone home. If I’d stayed, I could have fought Kitty off.” 

“N . . . no. She’d . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . t . . . too. I’m . . . gl . . . glad . . . you’re . . . s . . . safe. If . . . s . . . she . . . h . . . had . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hurt . . . o . . . one . . . of . . . u . . . us . . . I’m . . . gl . . . glad . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . me.” 

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll fight. I can’t lose you.” 

“I’ll . . . t . . . try,” Sherlock whispered. “I . . . l . . . love . . . you.” 

“I love you, too. Always.” 

Sherlock’s raspy breaths continued. 

“Are you in a lot of pain?”

“E . . . every . . . wh . . . where. A . . . all . . . o . . . over. She . . . r . . . really . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . bad.” 

“Mycroft and I are going to make her pay.” 

“You won’t ever set eyes on her again, Brother. I swear it,” Mycroft said. 

“Don’t worry. Please. She can’t hurt you now. She’ll never hurt you again. I promise. I’d die before I let her touch you again.” 

“D . . . don’t . . . s . . . say . . . th . . . that. I’d . . . d . . . die . . . t . . . to . . . pr . . . protect . . . you.” 

“No. Not now. You’ve given up enough for me, for all of us. You fight to live. You fight to come home. Let us look after you.” 

Sherlock leaned heavily against John. What little strength he had was gone. He drew in one more shuttering, rasping breath before he began to cough. His whole body shook and spasmed in pain. John laid him carefully on the bed, wincing as blood flecks appeared on Sherlock’s lips. The doctors hurried to him, putting an oxygen mask on him. The cough finally ended and every breath was a struggle. Sherlock’s eyelids began to close as even the effort to keep them open seemed too much.

John clasped his hand. “I love you, Sherlock. Always remember that. I love you. You are my life.” 

Sherlock drew in as much air as his lungs would allow him. “L . . . love . . . you,” he whispered. John knew how much those two words were costing him. He felt the barest of squeezes to his hand. 

“You sleep, Sherlock. When you wake up, you’ll feel better.” He smiled, even as tears fell from his eyes. In his heart of hearts, he was sure Sherlock would never wake again. That this was it. 

Sherlock’s eyes held his as a small smile ghosted over his lips. John could see the life in those eyes. The intelligence, the wit, the essence of Sherlock shone there, and the love. John felt his chest swell with feeling. He could almost swear that the love Sherlock felt for him was literally radiating out from him. And he had never felt more cherished than he did at this moment. Sherlock’s heart was laid bare before him, and he knew that no one had ever loved him as much as Sherlock did. And he knew that Sherlock was fighting his hardest not to leave him. 

It was long minutes later before his eyelids finally closed. John brought Sherlock’s hand to his face and kissed it, closing his eyes and letting the sobs come. 

He felt Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder.

“John. John, let the doctors do their work.” 

“He’s fighting, Mycroft. He’s fighting to come back to me. He’s trying to fight off death with a whip and a chair, and I can’t do anything to help him. It’s like everything else. He goes to battle for those he loves and leaves us behind in safety.” 

“It’s his way, John.” 

“But he has to do it alone.”

“He’s not alone. He knows you’re here.” 

John stood up and Mycroft caught him as his legs buckled, and he slid to the floor. Mycroft followed him down and held him in his arms as John sobbed into a suit that cost more than a year’s rent for 221B. 

Mycroft felt tears coming himself. His little brother had done the most miraculous things to help those he loved, especially the man he was holding, but he doubted that Sherlock could win this fight. And, if he died, what would happen to John? He vowed to himself that Sherlock’s love would never want for anything. He owed Sherlock that much. When John’s sobs had faded, Mycroft helped him to his feet and sat him down on the bed on the opposite side of the room as the doctors swarmed over Sherlock. 

Mycroft sent one of his people out to bring them tea as he sat beside John and watched the doctors work. Sherlock’s breath continued to rattle, and Mycroft knew that that sound would haunt his dreams until the end of his days. He wasn’t sure what was worse: this or watching Sherlock being beaten in that Serbian prison, unable to help. 

He coaxed John, who wouldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, to drink the tea. John was exhausted but Mycroft knew he wouldn’t sleep. If Sherlock were to die while John was sleeping, he’d never forgive himself, or Mycroft. 

So they sat, for hours, watching the doctors, watching Sherlock breath. One of the doctors approached John. “His temperature is down a degree,” he said.

John perked up at that. “Really?” 

“It’s some progress. We’d like to intubate him so he can save his strength. He’s fighting for every breath now. If we can take that over for him, his body can start to really fight off the infection.” 

“Alright,” John said. He hated to see this happen but he knew that what the doctor was saying was right. He watched passively as they intubated Sherlock, forcing air in and out of his infected lungs. 

“John,” Mycroft said. “Please lay down. Try and get some rest.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave him.”

“You’ll be here. I’ll sit here. I’ll wake you if anything happens.” 

“You promise?” 

“I do.” 

“I . . . I’ll try.” He stood up and walked over to the bed, bending to give Sherlock’s forehead a kiss. “I’ll be right here if you need me,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. He walked back to the bed and lay down, staring at him. 

Mycroft pulled the covers over John and went to sit beside Sherlock. 

Despite himself, John quickly fell asleep. He lay still for a long time, his sleep dreamless. Then he began to dream that Sherlock was being tortured before him, and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. This time it was Moriarty laughing at John, telling him he’d stop hurting Sherlock if John agreed to take his place. But John couldn’t get his mouth to work, he couldn’t say anything. And Sherlock continued to scream, blood pouring from wounds all over his body. Moriarty smiled as he drove a knife over and over into Sherlock’s chest, carving out Sherlock’s heart and throwing it into John’s lap. 

John woke with a start, Sherlock’s screams echoing in his head.

Mycroft was sitting, as he’d promised, next to Sherlock’s bed. He looked over at John. 

“Did you get any rest?” 

“I think some. I had a nightmare. How is he?”

“His temperature’s dropped nearly 2 more degrees. The antibiotics seem to be working.” 

John glanced at the clock. He’d been asleep for five and a half hours. He got up, yawning, and walked over to the bed. He reached out to take Sherlock’s hand. He could feel that he was cooler. The machines were still breathing for him, but he seemed to be resting. And in a corner of John’s mind, he let himself believe that Sherlock was going to be okay. 

“You should go home, Mycroft. You need to sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I really appreciate it that you’ve been here for us.” 

“I’ve failed him so many times in the past. I should have had my men guarding him.” 

“You couldn’t have known she’d do this. You can’t see everything.”

Mycroft looked up at John. 

“I shouldn’t have ever put him here. If I hadn’t, he’d have been home, where he belonged.” 

“You were doing what you thought best for him.”

“I think we both have learned that what we think is best for him isn’t always so.” 

Mycroft couldn’t argue with that. 

They sat there for days, occasionally napping, and eating whatever Mycroft’s men brought them as the medical team came and went. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg visited, bringing food, good wishes, changes of clothes. 

And gradually, Sherlock improved. His temperature was nearly back to normal. They had taken him off the ventilator. His breath still rasped but not nearly as badly as it had. Even the angry infection that had plagued his stomach wound was healing. 

And it was another day later before Sherlock woke again. John heard him cough and he looked up at him, almost melting in relief to see those eyes looking at him again. He poured a glass of water and held a straw out to Sherlock to have a drink.

“They had to intubate you. Your throat’s probably quite sore.” Sherlock drank and drank until he weakly spit the straw out.

“H . . . how . . . l . . . long?”

“Have you been unconscious?”

Sherlock nodded slightly.

“Two weeks. But you’re better. Your temperature’s nearly back to normal and the infection is clearing up. We just have to get the cough under control.” John smiled and sat down beside Sherlock. “And once the cough is better, I promise. I swear on my life that I’ll take you home.”

Sherlock smiled as tears came to his eyes. “H . . . home?” he asked.

John smiled wider and ran his fingers down Sherlock’s face. “I promise.”

Over the next few days, John sat by Sherlock’s side as he slowly improved. The cough became better, and John told the doctors that he would continue the treatment but at home. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop smiling that day. John dressed him, and as soon as the papers were ready, he took Sherlock out to the van. This time, as he lifted Sherlock to put him in the car seat, Sherlock put his arms around John’s neck and kissed him softly. 

John held Sherlock’s hand as he drove them home. 

Sherlock almost laughed when he saw the door of 221B come into sight. He had been so convinced that he’d never come home again. As they rode up in the lift, he could hardly keep from bouncing in his chair. As the door opened, Rosie came running towards Sherlock, her face lit up with a huge smile. “Uncle Sherlock!!” John wheeled Sherlock out of the lift and caught Rosie, depositing her on Sherlock’s lap. She threw her arms around his neck as he hugged her close. 

“I missed you so much.”

“I . . . m . . . missed . . . you . . . t . . . too. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . gl . . . glad . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . home.” 

“I’m so happy you’re home.”

“M . . . me . . . t . . . too.”

Mrs. Hudson came over, a huge grin on her face. “We’ve all missed you so much Sherlock.” She bent over and kissed his forehead. “You’re so pale, though, and you’ve lost so much weight. John and I will have to feed you more.”

John bent and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. 

“And here we all are,” John said. “Our family all together.” 

Mrs. Hudson smiled at them and told them she’d leave them to their reunion.

“W . . . why?” Sherlock asked. “You’re . . . p . . . part . . . of . . . o . . . our . . . f . . . family.” 

She had tears in her eyes and a big smile on her face as she bustled off to make them all some tea.

That night, with his family at his side, Sherlock felt so happy. He’d almost forgotten that he could feel like this. The darkness of his depression was still there, and would perhaps always be there, but, for this night, he knew he was happy. The cough continued to plague him, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. He ate and ate, far more than he had at the hospital and drank cup after cup of tea. He kissed Rosie good night and watched John carry her into the lift. John came back down and sat beside Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson excused herself and went back downstairs. 

Sherlock took John’s hand. “I . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . d . . . day . . . t . . . today.”

John smiled at him. “I’m so glad, love.” 

“You . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . h . . . happy . . . I . . . am . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me.” 

“Of course I do. I’ll never stop, never ever.” John reached out to touch Sherlock’s face.

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry. It . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . the . . . d . . . depression. It . . . c . . . convinced . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . n . . . never . . . l . . . loved . . . m . . . me. You . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . felt . . . p . . . pity . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me.”

“That doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You’re the man I love. You’ll always be the man I love, always.” 

“S . . . sometimes . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . d . . . deserve . . . it. I’m . . . s. . . so . . . b . . . broken . . . J . . . John.” 

“You’re my Sherlock. You’ll always be my Sherlock. I want whatever you want to give me.” 

“You . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . m . . . me. Al . . . always.” 

John kissed Sherlock then. Sherlock had longed for John’s touch, for his kisses. 

John gathered Sherlock into his arms and held him against his chest, thanking God that He’d spared Sherlock’s life again and swearing that he would die before he let anyone hurt him again.

“C . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . bed . . . J . . . John? I’m . . . t . . . tired. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . lay . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . in . . . o . . . our . . . b . . . bed.”

John smiled at him. “Of course, love. Whatever you want.” He picked up Sherlock and put him in his wheelchair, rolling him into the loo. When they’d both finished in there, he took Sherlock into the bedroom, picking him up and sitting him on the bed while he went to get Sherlock’s pajamas. He pulled off Sherlock’s shirt and trousers and quickly dressed him. He purposefully kept his eyes away from the thick bandages on Sherlock’s stomach, chest, and shoulder. He pulled the covers down before he lifted Sherlock and deposited him in bed. He quickly undressed and slipped on his pajama bottoms. When he went to put on his T-shirt, Sherlock asked him to stop.

“Do you need something?” John asked.

“C . . . can . . . you . . . n . . . not . . . p . . . put . . . your . . . T . . . sh . . . shirt . . . on? I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . your . . . sk . . . skin.” 

John smiled and put the T-shirt back in the drawer. HE went out to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and Sherlock’s meds for the night. He laid down beside Sherlock and switched off the light. Sherlock moved stiffly towards John, resting his face against John’s chest and wrapping his arm around him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

“I . . . m . . . missed . . . th . . . this,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Me too,” John replied as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Pr . . . promise . . . m . . . me?”

“Anything.”

“Pr . . . promise . . . th . . . that . . . you’ll . . . k . . . keep . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . safe, J . . . John.”

John felt a lump forming in his throat. “I promise no one will ever hurt you. If I have to go to the ends of the earth to do it, I will.”

“D . . . don’t . . . l . . . leave . . . m . . . me,” Sherlock whispered. “J . . . just . . . st . . . stay . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. J . . . just . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me.”

“I will.”

Sherlock nodded his head and kissed John’s chest. To know that Sherlock trusted him to keep him safe was beyond what he’d ever expected. He knew the old Sherlock would never have asked. And that broke his heart a bit. Sherlock would never be the way he was. John knew it bothered Sherlock so much. He knew he could never tell Sherlock that it bothered him a bit too. But having Sherlock in his life. Knowing that Sherlock needed him. Knowing that he needed Sherlock. It was more than enough. 

He stayed awake long enough to ensure that Sherlock was asleep. And only when he knew that his family was asleep, safe in their beds, and that their house was surrounded by Mycroft’s men, did he allow himself to sleep. 

The next morning, John woke up early after the first good night’s sleep he’d had in weeks. He got up and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, leaving him to his rest. He greeted the night nurse and asked him to knock on the loo door if Rosie or Sherlock needed anything. 

He took a long, hot shower and quickly got dressed, going to make a big breakfast for Sherlock. He heard Rosie fussing upstairs and went up to get her. He brought her back down, dressed and ready for the day. 

“J . . . John?” he heard from the bedroom. He took Rosie in and she kissed him good morning before John kissed him. The nurse came in to get him ready for the day, taking him in for a quick bath and dressed before coming out into the kitchen. 

After Rosie left for school, John got Sherlock some breakfast. He cooked bacon and sausage and eggs and toast with lots of butter and jam. 

“I’m . . . n . . . not . . . th . . . that . . . h . . . hungry,” Sherlock said as John put a heaping plate in front of him.

“You’re going to eat all of that,” John said. “You lost so much weight in the hospital. And you couldn’t afford to lose any.”

“I . . . g . . . guess . . . I . . . am . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . u . . . under . . . w . . . weight,” Sherlock reluctantly admitted.

“A bit? Your clothes are hanging off of you. I want to get you fattened up. I want you to look healthy.”

Sherlock smiled and picked up his spoon. Almost a half hour later, he put down his spoon and wiped his face. “I . . . g . . . guess . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . h . . . hungrier . . . th . . . than . . . I . . . th . . . thought. C . . . compli . . . ments . . . t . . . to . . . the . . . c . . . cook.” 

John smiled as he picked up Sherlock’s plate, and kissed him gently on the top of the head. 

Sherlock yawned a jaw-cracking yawn. “A . . . all . . . th . . . that . . . f . . . food’s . . . m . . . made . . . m . . . me . . . sl . . . sleepy.”

“Want to lay down for awhile?”

Sherlock nodded. John picked him up and carried him to the sofa. He laid down with Sherlock and took him in his arms. Sherlock laid his cheek against John’s chest. “I . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . weak.”

“You’re still getting over being stabbed, that awful infection, and pneumonia. It’s going to be awhile before you fully recover.”

“I . . . h . . . hate . . . f . . . feeling . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

“I know you do,” John said, and kissed his forehead. “But I’ll be here for you. I’ll get you whatever you need. I’ll make sure that you’re safe and warm and fed and loved.” He gently kissed Sherlock on the lips. “I want you to never, ever have to question that I love you.”

“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . s . . . sor-“

“None of that. You don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Never to me.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . d . . . deserve . . . you.”

“You’re the best man I’ve ever known. You used to pretend that you didn’t care. But I learned long ago that you have the biggest capacity for love that I’ve ever seen. And to know that that love is for me. It just overwhelms me to know that that heart belongs to me.”

“A . . . Always. All . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . love. It . . . w . . . will . . . a . . . always . . . b . . . be . . . yours . . . and . . . yours . . . a . . . alone.”

John pulled Sherlock closer. Tears stung his eyes. He’d once again come so, so close to losing this wonderful, amazing, indescribable, perfect man. He’d never leave him again. No matter what happened. John swore on all he held holy that Sherlock Holmes would never be in danger again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing everyone a wonderful holiday season. Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a hard time dealing with the aftermath of his injuries. A very happy occasion brings back memories of a truly bad day. But a very good day follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this. A belated Happy New Year to everyone!! Pay attention to the tags.

Sherlock had his ups and downs over the next few days, but his strength was extremely slow in returning. So much so that John was getting worried. Everything seemed to tire him. Getting bathed and dressed in the morning and eating breakfast meant that he needed a nap while John did the dishes. Physical therapy and eating lunch meant another nap before Dr. Cooper came. John tried to take him outside periodically for fresh air, but any trip more than a few minutes completely exhausted Sherlock, and he’d fall asleep before they got home. 

John diligently examined Sherlock’s wounds as soon as he woke up in the morning and before he went to sleep at night. They seemed to be healing nicely, even the stomach wound that had been so infected. Sherlock’s breath still rattled, and he’d take coughing fits every few hours that left him wheezing for air. He was too tired to work on cases or his music. The most he had energy for was to lie in John’s arms and talk. They’d talk about their plans for the future, about Rosie and the baby, about Greg and Molly’s wedding. Anything John could think of to keep Sherlock’s mind off of what had happened and his present condition. 

Sherlock was worried himself. He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. Even when he woke up in the hospital after the warehouse. But he didn’t want to make John unhappy by complaining. It was all he could do to even wake up in the morning. If his body had its way, he’d never get up; he’d lay in bed all day. It was a fight to keep awake every moment. If he ate, it made it worse, and he couldn’t not eat. John made sure he had three full meals a day. What should have given him energy seemed to sap it instead. 

He drank cup after cup of tea and biscuits full of sugar, thinking it might help, but nothing did. Even sitting up seemed to almost be too much for him. His head would swim with dizziness, especially when John pushed him around the flat or outdoors. Nausea would claw at his insides, and it took all the little strength he had to stop from vomiting. 

John kept rigorous notes about Sherlock’s condition. He’d take his blood pressure, measure his pulse, take his temperature, ask him about his symptoms, even measure his blood sugar. But he was stumped. He consulted with his colleagues, who’d tell him it was just a matter of time. That Sherlock had been through so much in the last few months that his body was in shock. 

John sat watching Sherlock sleep. His face was so gaunt that his cheekbones looked like they were going to burst through the skin. Despite all of the sleep he was getting, there were dark circles under his eyes. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s soft hair. He looked so young, so small, so very, very vulnerable. John wanted nothing more than to make him better. But he knew it was going to take time. 

Sometimes Sherlock felt so tired that he couldn’t think. It was impossible to work on cases. He had had enough problems keeping things in his head before. Now, he couldn’t keep any details in his head for more than a few minutes. The words wouldn’t stay. The clues wouldn’t connect. 

He had so wanted to work on his mind palace, but the textbooks that Mycroft had gotten for him weren’t helping. He’d reread passages over and over but couldn’t follow a chapter through to the end. 

He didn’t want to complain to John. He still felt incredibly guilty for believing Kitty Lewis’s assertion that John didn’t love him. But it was hard. He felt even more useless than he had before. He had worked so hard, come so far. He’d been solving cases and talking about going back to work for the Met. He’d been composing music for John. He’d been better. A lot better. He’d been happy. 

Now he felt like he was letting John down, somehow. He knew it wasn’t his fault that he was feeling awful. But he was worrying John, Mrs. Hudson, Rosie, Mycroft, his parents, Greg, and Molly. He had to get stronger or he wouldn’t be able to be the best man at Greg and Molly’s wedding. It was only a week away. 

He’d had to have John help him set up a stag night with the two of them, Anderson, Greg’s soon-to-be brother-in-law Mike, and several officers from the Met. Molly had come earlier to get Mrs. Hudson and Rosie for a hen party. Sherlock decided they’d go to the pub that Greg had taken him to the night he solved his first crime for the Met. Greg was delighted. 

John kept an eye on Sherlock, who tried his best to keep awake. The others told stories about Greg on the job. Sherlock tried to keep track, but the stories seemed to run into each other in his mind. He tried to remember some of his own, but he was getting confused. He started the story of “A Study in Pink” but got some of the details mixed up. John took over and finished the tale, leaving out the bit about him shooting the taxi driver serial killer. 

Sherlock sat miserably in his wheelchair. He couldn’t have a pint, not that he really wanted one, but he did want to fit in. He kept pretty quiet, afraid he’d make a fool of himself again. And John, Greg, and Anderson kept looking over at him, none of them able to keep their concern for his wellbeing hidden. He knew he shouldn’t have come. He was ruining their time. He knew that John wouldn’t enjoy himself as much as he had at his own stag do because he had to look after Sherlock. 

Sherlock smiled and laughed along with the rest but didn’t always know what he was smiling and laughing about. He drank several glasses of fizzy drink, but the exhaustion was overwhelming him. He didn’t want to ruin anyone’s good time so he didn’t say anything. 

It was after midnight before the party broke up. As soon as they got into a cab to go home, Sherlock fell asleep and didn’t wake up until late the next morning, not even when John took him out of the cab and got him ready for bed. 

When he woke, Sherlock felt shredded. Weariness settled over him as if he hadn’t just woken from a ten-hour sleep. He yawned until his jaw cracked and tried to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. Today was the day they were to go and rent their tuxes. And Sherlock wasn’t looking forward to it. He was so afraid that he was going to make a fool of himself and ruin Greg and Molly’s wedding. He and John had composed a best-man speech and John had printed it out for him so he wouldn’t forget anything. 

John came in a few minutes after he had awoken with a glass of water and a handful of medication. “How you feeling this morning, love?” John said as he sat down beside him.

“W . . . wr . . . etched. S . . . so . . . t . . . tired. H . . . how . . . a . . . about . . . you?”

“Bit of a hangover. Okay though. That was a great stag do last night.”

“W . . . was . . . it?”

“Of course, it was. Greg had a great time. I was a bit concerned about you, though. You made a couple of mistakes in the story about “A Study in Pink.””

“I . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . k . . . keep . . . it . . . st . . . straight . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind. Or . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . longer . . . st . . . stories . . . e . . . every . . . one . . . w . . . was . . . t . . . telling. I . . . l . . . laughed . . . wh . . . when . . . every . . . one . . . else . . . d . . . did. B . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . f . . . follow . . . th . . . them.”

John looked at Sherlock, worry lines creasing his brow. “Memory and concentration problems? In addition to the severe fatigue, weakness, nausea, and dizziness. I really don’t like this.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . e . . . either. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . better. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . a . . . afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . won’t . . . g . . . get . . . a . . . any . . . b . . . better. I’m . . . w . . . worried . . . I’ll . . . r . . . ruin . . . G . . . Greg . . . and . . . M . . . Molly’s . . . w . . . wedding.”

“You couldn’t do that. They want you to be there. We’re getting our tuxes today. You’re going to look so handsome.”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “You’re . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . one . . . wh . . . who’ll . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . hand . . . s . . . some. I . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . l . . . look . . . l . . . like. M . . . my . . . f . . . face . . . is . . . a . . . all . . . s . . . sunken. I’ve . . . g . . . got . . . bl . . . black . . . u . . . under . . . m . . . my . . . eyes. M . . . my . . . h . . . hair . . . l . . . looks . . . d . . . dry . . . and . . . a . . . awful. A . . . and . . . I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . th . . . thin.”

“You’ll get better, love. Your body’s just in shock from everything that’s happened. It will take awhile to heal. Just awhile and then you’ll be fine. You’ll be you, and we’ll keep solving cases and you’ll keep on with your music. And you’ll work on building your mind palace. Everything will be absolutely fine.”

“You . . . d . . . don’t . . . l . . . look . . . t . . . too . . . s . . . sure . . . of . . . th . . . that.”

“I wish I could tell you when. I wish I could say it’ll be three or four days or a week or two weeks. But I don’t know. Sometimes medicine isn’t an exact science. The human body is so complex that it can take a lot of time to put itself back together again when it’s been hurt.”

“I . . . kn . . . know . . . J . . . John. I . . . of . . . a . . . all . . . p . . . people . . . kn . . . know. M . . . my . . . b . . . body . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . betrayed . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . again . . . and . . . a . . . again. I . . . kn . . . know . . . I’ve . . . p . . . put . . . it . . . th . . . through . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . but . . . n . . . not . . . all . . . of . . . it . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . been . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . fault.”

“No, it hasn’t. You’ve been shot and stabbed and poisoned and beaten and tortured. You deserve to be well now.”

“I . . . d . . . deserve . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . this.”

“No one deserves this. You certainly don’t. Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . j . . . just . . . “

“I know. You don’t feel well. You’re exhausted and tired of waiting to feel better. It will all get better. I promise that I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen. Don’t worry. Let me take care of you.”

Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand. “You . . . d . . . do . . . t . . . take . . . c . . . care . . . of . . . m . . . me. And . . . I . . . r . . . really . . . ap . . . appreciate . . . it. You . . . kn . . . know . . . I . . . d . . . do. I . . . j . . . just . . . I’m . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . w . . . waiting.”

John kissed him on the forehead. “I know you are. I don’t blame you. Not at all.”

That afternoon, they headed out in the van to the suit shop. Greg was already there with Molly’s brother-in-law.

It was the first time that either Sherlock or John had met Mike McGregor. He was tall and thin with dark hair and a wide, easy smile who spoke with a Scottish brogue. The men who worked at the shop helped them pick out the tuxes. John helped Sherlock try his on, but it was way too big. Even the smallest of sizes for his six-foot frame wouldn’t fit. Sherlock felt humiliated. He got John to call Mycroft, who assured him that he’d make an appointment with his tailor and have his tux altered to fit him. Sherlock had John use his card to pay full price for the tuxedo. Mycroft told them where to go, and an hour later Sherlock’s measurements had been taken, and the tux was taken to be altered. 

By the time he got home, Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open. Dr. Cooper was waiting for them when they arrived. Sherlock tried to stay awake. But he couldn’t keep things straight in his mind to form sentences that made sense. After fifteen minutes, Dr. Cooper told him that it was okay, they’d continue the next day. After Sam helped Sherlock to bed and he went to sleep, Dr. Cooper went out to speak with John.

“I don’t like this, John. He’s having a very hard time with his memory and concentration. And the utter exhaustion.”

“I know. I don’t like it either. But the best the doctors have come up with is shock to his system from all that his body and mind have been through in less than a year. He’s so worried that he won’t get better. The doctors are sure he will but just don’t know when. I’ve told him not to worry that it’ll happen some day and to let me take care of him, but he’s still quite upset about it.”

“It’s entirely understandable that he’s upset. He was just starting to get back to a semblance of his old life before that news report. His whole life has been in an uproar since he was kidnapped. I’m very worried about his mental state.”

“So am I,” John said, rubbing his face. “I worry about him constantly. And this setback has really hurt him. He’s lost all the confidence he fought so hard to get back. He’s so worried that he’ll somehow ruin our friends Greg and Molly’s wedding next week. We went today to get the tuxes, and he’s lost so much weight that he had to buy a tuxedo and have it altered by his brother’s tailor in order to get something that looks half decent. He felt humiliated. We wrote a best-man speech together, and he’s scared that he’ll ruin it somehow. I’ve printed it out on cards so he can read it. I’ll actually be glad when the reception is over so he can get this off of his mind.”

“Keep an eye on him. Let me know if he needs me. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

John thanked him and showed him to the door. 

Mycroft stopped by half an hour later. 

“I wanted to speak with you, John. Is Sherlock alright?”

“He was really upset and felt humiliated after what happened in the men’s wear shop. He couldn’t stay awake for his session with Dr. Cooper.”

“I’m concerned about him. About his condition. I’ve never seen him like this. Even when he was heavily indulging in drugs. I’ve never seen him so thin. And his mind. He can’t remember things. He had such a fast and nimble mind. Now it’s gone.”

“There’s no reason to think it won’t come back.”

“He’s miserable. And there’s nothing I can do. I don’t like feeling . . . helpless. Not where my little brother is concerned.” 

“I know the feeling. I can’t do anything either. Being a doctor and unable to solve a medical problem is incredibly frustrating. I love Sherlock, and I can’t help him. I can only be there for him until he gets better. That’s all any of us can do.”

“I suppose. But I share my brother’s aversion to having to wait for something to happen. I’m used to being able to instantly solve something or at least make progress. I want him to be happy. I want him to be safe. I don’t want him to have to worry about anything.”

“I want all that for him too. Speaking of safe . . . it’s been several weeks. Where are you on finding Kitty Lewis?”

“She bought a ticket to Edinburgh and used a fake ID to get on a plane to South America. She was captured the next day. She’s been in my private prison ever since.”

“That’s been weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were needed at Sherlock’s side. And you’re still needed. She’s locked up. I haven’t done anything to her yet. I’ve been waiting for your availability.”

“I appreciate that. I suppose she’s not going anywhere. Thank you for that, Mycroft. I’m feeling very vengeful after what Sherlock’s been put through.”

Mycroft nodded, a cold smile on his face. “I can certainly understand that. I’m feeling much the same way.”

When Sherlock woke up, Sam brought him out to the sitting room. Mycroft gasped. Sherlock looked even worse than he had the week before. Mycroft forced himself to smile. “Little Brother.”

“Br . . . broth . . . er . . . m . . . mine. N . . . no . . . s . . . sense . . . in . . . tr . . . trying . . . t . . . to . . . c . . . cover . . . up . . . your . . . r . . . reaction. I . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . a . . . awful . . . I . . . l . . . look. I’m . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . ruin . . . G . . . Greg . . . and . . . M . . . Molly’s . . . w . . . wedding . . . p . . . pic . . . tures.”

“I could have a stylist and make-up consultant come by the flat before the wedding. You’ll look fine.”

“W . . . would . . . you . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . do . . . th . . . that?”

“Of course, I would. I don’t want you worrying about it. You’re going to be there to enjoy your friends’ wedding day. John tells me your best-man speech is all done. As long as you don’t lose the ring, you’ll be brilliant.”

“I . . . a . . . app . . . reciate . . . th . . . that . . . M . . . Mycroft. Th . . . thank . . . you.”

“Il n’y a pas de quoi, Little Brother.”

The three men spent the afternoon in quiet discussion until Rosie got home. She showed her Uncle Mycroft her dress for the wedding. 

“You’ll look so beautiful in that, Rosie,” Mycroft said. 

Rosie smiled broadly. “I wish you could see me, Uncle Mycroft. I’m supposed to get my hair done, and Papa said I could even put on some lipstick.”

“I’m sure I’ll see a lot of pictures.”

“I’ll take one when she’s all ready and send it to you,” John said.

“Perfect,” Mycroft said, smiling.

Rosie smiled too. 

The Saturday of the wedding dawned clear and bright. Sherlock woke tired and nervous. He’d hardly slept despite his physical exhaustion. He was so worried that he was going to ruin the wedding despite John’s reassurances. 

Sam got him bathed and shaved. Sherlock ate a little breakfast, just to make John happy. While John took a long shower, Sherlock rehearsed his best-man speech over and over. With his nervousness, his stutter was even worse than normal. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. “J . . . just . . . a . . . f . . . few . . . h . . . hours . . . and . . . it’ll . . . all . . . b . . . be . . . o . . . over,” he kept whispering to himself. 

“Practicing your speech?” John asked as he came out of the loo in his dressing gown.

“St . . . st . . . stutter’s . . . b . . . bad.”

“You’re just nervous. You’ll feel better. Just don’t forget that Greg and Molly wanted you to be the best man. They believe in you. And so do I. I’ve got to get Rosie in the bathtub.”

John set about getting a literally vibrating with excitement Rosie bathed and ready. Mycroft was sending a car to take her to the beauty parlour where Molly and her sister and nieces would be getting their hair and make up done. He had her dress in a suit bag so it wouldn’t get wrinkled. 

John was so busy with Rosie that he didn’t really notice how upset Sherlock was. When Rosie left, John made them each a cup of tea and sat down next to him. It was only then that he noticed that Sherlock’s hands were shaking. So badly that he could hardly keep his cup in his hand. 

“Love? What’s wrong? I know you’re scared about the speech, but it’ll be okay. There’s no need to work yourself up so much.” John reached out and touched the back of Sherlock’s hand. “Your hand’s so cold.”

John stood up and picked up Sherlock. They sat down together on the sofa, and John wrapped a blanket around him. He pulled Sherlock into a hug and held onto him tightly. “You can’t let this get to you. Greg and Molly would never want you to feel this way.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. Th . . . they . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . d . . . dis . . . appointed . . . in . . . m . . . me. Th . . . they . . . w . . . will . . . prob . . . ably . . . re . . . regret . . . ask . . . ing . . . m . . . me.”

“Don’t say things like that. All you need to do is try your best. They know that you’ve had a very hard few weeks. None of this is your fault. They love you, Sherlock. They’re your friends. They want you to be at their wedding. They wouldn’t have asked you to be best man if they thought you weren’t up for it.”

“Th . . . that . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . before . . . I . . . g . . . got . . . st . . . stabbed.”

“They still want you. They came to see you in the hospital, didn’t they? If they wanted to pick someone else, they would have.”

“I . . . s . . . suppose.”

“You know it would make Molly cry to think that being a part of her wedding was upsetting you so much.” 

“Th . . . that’s . . . n . . . not . . . f . . . fair . . . J . . . John.”

“Maybe not. But it’s true.”

Sherlock nodded. “I . . . I’ll . . . t . . . try. I . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . dis . . . appoint . . . th . . . them. Th . . . that’s . . . all.”

“I know you don’t. I understand that. And you won’t. It’s a great speech. And I’ve got Molly’s ring. I’ll be sure to put it in your pocket when you get dressed.”

“Al . . . r . . . right. All . . . of . . . th . . . this . . . and . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . e . . . even . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . any . . . ch . . . cham . . . pagne.” Sherlock turned his lips down in a fake pout. 

“It is unfair, isn’t it? Juice only, though.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . d . . . drink . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . but . . . a . . . s . . . sip . . . of . . . ch . . . champagne . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . h . . . hurt . . . t . . . too . . . m . . . much . . . w . . . would . . . it?”

“Maybe a sip. But no more. It wouldn’t react well with your pain meds.”

Sherlock smiled. When the stylist arrived, he took almost an hour to do Sherlock’s hair and add a bit of make up, enough to cover up the black circles under his eyes.

When he’d finished, John smiled at him. “You look so absolutely handsome.”

“R . . . really?”

John brought him a mirror. “Look for yourself.”

Sherlock looked into the mirror. “N . . . not . . . b . . . bad. I . . . d . . . do . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . b . . . better.”

“Wait until you get that tux on. You’re gonna look fantastic.”

Sherlock smiled. “You . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so?”

“Of course, I do.”

“You’re . . . b . . . biased.”

“You bet your life I’m biased.” He bent down and kissed Sherlock. 

Sherlock giggled. 

John got Sherlock dressed. Sherlock was a bit bothered that he couldn’t wear a blanket across his lap. Though the trousers weren’t skin tight, it was obvious that his legs were misshapen. John had a hard time fitting his feet in the tuxedo shoes, but he managed to get them tied. He put Molly’s ring in the pocket of the tux and stood back to look at him.

“I was right! You look amazing, love. My handsome, beautiful man.” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and took a few pictures of Sherlock before he bent over and kissed him soundly on the lips. “Oh, almost forgot. Here’s the speech.” He tucked that into another pocket. 

“L . . . let’s . . . s . . . see . . . h . . . how . . . h . . . hand . . . s . . . some . . . you . . . are . . . in . . . a . . . t . . . tuxedo.” Sherlock smiled as John quickly undressed and got into the tux. Sherlock whistled and said, “I . . . kn . . . knew . . . it. You . . . l . . . look . . . l . . . like . . . a . . . f . . . film . . . st . . . star.” 

“Which one?”

“Th . . . that . . . one . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . J . . . James . . . B . . . Bond . . . m . . . movies . . . you . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . watch.”

“Daniel Craig?”

“H . . . he’s . . . bl . . . blond . . . isn’t . . . h . . . he?”

“Not as grey as I am.” 

“D . . . don’t . . . n . . . nit . . . p . . . pick . . . h . . . hand . . . s . . . some.”

John smiled and asked Sam to take a few pictures of the two of them together. 

They went out and got in the van and on to the church. Greg and Mike were already there. Greg looked incredibly nervous. 

“Th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . only . . . one . . . who . . . w . . . was . . . n . . . nervous.”

“You’ve just got to give a speech. I’ve got to stand before the vicar and get married.”

“You . . . d . . . did . . . it . . . b . . . before.”

“This is different. I want this to be perfect — for Molly.”

John smiled and nudged Greg in the ribs. “It will be perfect. You and Molly are perfect together.”

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t long before the guests started to arrive. John and Mike went out into the church to guide the guests to their seats. Greg and Sherlock talked quietly. 

The verger came back to get them when it was time for the wedding to begin and wheeled Sherlock out. He and Greg stopped at the front of the church and were joined by John and Mike. The vicar came out, and a quartet of two violins, a viola, and a cello played the wedding march. 

The back doors opened, and Rosie was the first one through. She looked adorable in her green dress with flowers woven into her hair. She was smiling brightly and gently tossing rose petals before her. John and Sherlock both smiled widely, proud as could be of her.

Next came Molly’s two nieces and then her sister. And finally, Molly on her father’s arm. Her father looked incredibly proud, and Molly was smiling from ear to ear. Her mother stood at the front of the church, smiling and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. 

The wedding ceremony wasn’t long, but it was long enough that Sherlock started to get sleepy. John nudged him right before he needed to present Greg with the ring. Sherlock reached into his pocket and gave Greg the ring, glad that he hadn’t made a mistake. 

After they were pronounced husband and wife, Greg and Molly kissed and started down the aisle. John pushed Sherlock and Molly’s sister walked beside Sherlock, and the oldest niece walked beside John. The youngest niece walked beside her father, and Rosie brought up the rear. When they got to the front of the church, they all got into two limousines to go off to have their pictures taken. Rosie sat between John and Sherlock, and they told her how beautiful she was and how proud they were of her. She was so happy and told Sherlock and John that they looked very nice in their tuxedos. 

Once the pictures were taken (and John made sure to take a picture of Sherlock and Rosie together to send to Mycroft, who responded by sending a message to Rosie telling her how beautiful she looked), they went on to the reception hall. 

Sherlock was very tired but knew that he had to be there for the reception line. By the time he’d shaken hands and made small talk with each of the guests, he was exhausted and didn’t feel up to giving a speech, but he didn’t want to disappoint Molly and Greg. They looked so happy and were depending on him. 

When everyone was seated, Sherlock gently tapped on his champagne flute and the guests quieted down. He took out his cards and cleared his throat. John, who was sitting beside him, squeezed his leg and smiled at him. 

“L . . . ladies . . . and . . . gen . . . tle . . . m . . . men . . . h . . . honoured . . . g . . . guests. W . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . g . . . gathered . . . h . . . here . . . t . . . today . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . witness . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . marriage . . . of . . . D . . . Det . . . ective . . . In . . . Inspec . . . tor . . . Gr . . . Gregory . . . N . . . Nathaniel . . . Le . . . Lestrade . . . and . . . Doc . . . tor . . . M . . . Molly . . . Am . . . Amelia . . . H . . . Hooper. And . . . wh . . . what . . . a . . . b . . . beaut . . . iful . . . s . . . service . . . it . . . w . . . was. I . . . am . . . h . . . honoured . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . asked . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . Gr . . . Greg’s . . . b . . . best . . . m . . . man. I’ve . . . kn . . . known . . . b . . . both . . . th . . . the . . . br . . . bride . . . and . . . gr . . . groom . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . many . . . y . . . years . . . and . . . c . . . can . . . at . . . attest . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . they . . . are . . . t . . . two . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . k . . . kindest . . . w . . . warmest . . . m . . . most . . . ded . . . icated . . . s . . . selfless . . . and . . . tr . . . true . . . fr . . . friends . . . a . . . anyone . . . c . . . could . . . a . . . ask . . . f . . . for. P . . . part . . . icular . . . ly . . . s . . . someone . . . l . . . like . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . who . . . h . . . hasn’t . . . al . . . always . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . the . . . eas . . . iest . . . p . . . person . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . a . . . along . . . w . . . with. 

“I . . . m . . . met . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . at . . . a . . . cr . . . crime . . . s . . . scene . . . I . . . h . . . had . . . l . . . literally . . . st . . . stumbled . . . a . . . across . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . former . . . d . . . days . . . as . . . an . . . in . . . incredibly . . . b . . . bored . . . f . . . full . . . of . . . h . . . himself . . . dr . . . drug . . . add . . . addict. I . . . st . . . stopped . . . out . . . of . . . c . . . curio . . . sity . . . and . . . st . . . stand . . . ing . . . b . . . behind . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . police . . . t . . . tape . . . th . . . things . . . j . . . just . . . st . . . started . . . t . . . to . . . c . . . coalesce . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind. Th . . . the . . . p . . . police . . . off . . . officers . . . s . . . seemed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . moving . . . s . . . so . . . sl . . . slow . . . and . . . n . . . not . . . p . . . paying . . . att . . . attention . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . things . . . c . . . correct . . . ly. I . . . h . . . heard . . . th . . . them . . . whis . . . pering . . . a . . . about . . . s . . . suicide. I . . . c . . . called . . . ov . . . over . . . a . . . y . . . young . . . l . . . lieu . . . tenant . . . w . . . who . . . w . . . was . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . of . . . c . . . course . . . and . . . t . . . told . . . h . . . him . . . th . . . that . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . murder . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . suicide . . . and . . . th . . . then . . . pro . . . ceeded . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . rattle . . . off . . . m . . . my . . . de . . . ductions. H . . . he . . . g . . . gave . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . this . . . l . . . look . . . and . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . this . . . d . . . day . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . sure . . . if . . . h . . . he . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . mentally . . . ill . . . or . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . mur . . . derer . . . b . . . but . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . looked . . . wh . . . where . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . p . . . pointing . . . and . . . c . . . carefully . . . ex . . . amined . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . body. Wh . . . when . . . h . . . he . . . real . . . ized . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . r . . . right . . . h . . . he . . . b . . . barked . . . or . . . ders . . . at . . . th . . . the . . . oth . . . er . . . p . . . police . . . off . . . icers . . . and . . . p . . . pulled . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . side . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . taped . . . off . . . a . . . area. ‘You’re . . . h . . . high . . . as . . . a . . . k . . . kite . . . k . . . kid,’ . . . h . . . he . . . whis . . . pered. I . . . r . . . rem . . . ember . . . ac . . . tually . . . g . . . giggling. Th . . . then h . . . he . . . a . . . asked . . . m . . . me . . . if . . . h . . . he’d . . . f . . . find . . . a . . . any . . . dr . . . drugs . . . if . . . h . . . he . . . s . . . searched . . . m . . . me. I . . . t . . . told . . . h . . . him . . . n . . . no. H . . . he . . . n . . . nodded . . . and . . . s . . . said . . . th . . . that . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . didn’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . run . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . b . . . but . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . would . . . if . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . c . . . carrying. H . . . he . . . in . . . vited . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . M . . . Met . . . and . . . I . . . h . . . helped . . . h . . . him . . . c . . . catch . . . th . . . the . . . k . . . killer.

“I . . . w . . . was . . . h . . . hooked. I’d . . . f . . . found . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . r . . . really . . . en . . . joyed . . . and . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . r . . . really . . . g . . . good . . . at. And . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . m . . . made . . . it . . . all . . . p . . . poss . . . ible. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . of . . . m . . . many . . . oth . . . er . . . p . . . police . . . off . . . icers . . . wh . . . who . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . list . . . ened . . . t . . . to . . . an . . . ob . . . viously . . . dr . . . drugged . . . out . . . of . . . h . . . his . . . m . . . mind . . . n . . . no . . . b . . . body . . . off . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . st . . . street . . . b . . . but . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . did. H . . . h . . . e . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . round. H . . . he . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . help . . . h . . . him. I . . . h . . . had . . . gr . . . grown . . . up . . . w . . . without . . . fr . . . friends . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . s . . . sure . . . h . . . how . . . t . . . to . . . in . . . ter . . . pret . . . h . . . his . . . in . . . ter . . . est . . . at . . . f . . . first. I . . . th . . . thought . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . u . . . using . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . my . . . br . . . brain. B . . . but . . . h . . . he . . . r . . . really . . . g . . . gen . . . uinely . . . l . . . liked . . . m . . . me . . . n . . . no . . . m . . . matter . . . h . . . how . . . h . . . hard . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . a . . . along . . . w . . . with. H . . . he . . . t . . . told . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . n . . . night . . . th . . . that . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . was . . . gr . . . grateful . . . and . . . w . . . would . . . l . . . like . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . c . . . call . . . on . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . again . . . b . . . but . . . th . . . that . . . h . . . he . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . dr . . . drug . . . u . . . user . . . c . . . con . . . sulting . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . M . . . Met. W . . . with . . . out . . . h . . . him . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . sure . . . th . . . that . . . I’d . . . st . . . still . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . alive. I . . . cl . . . cleaned . . . up . . . w . . . with . . . o . . . only . . . th . . . the . . . occ . . . asional . . . b . . . back . . . sl . . . slide . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . career . . . of . . . Sh . . . Sher . . . l . . . lock . . . H . . . Holmes . . . c . . . con . . . sulting . . . d . . . detec . . . tive . . . b . . . began. 

“O . . . over . . . th . . . the . . . y . . . years . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . at . . . l . . . least . . . p . . . partly . . . res . . . pon . . . sible . . . f . . . for . . . h . . . his . . . h . . . hair . . . t . . . turning . . . gr . . . grey . . . b . . . but . . . h . . . he’s . . . al . . . ways . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . there . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. H . . . he’s . . . al . . . ways . . . c . . . cared. H . . . he . . . b . . . bent . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . str . . . aight . . . and . . . n . . . narrow . . . and . . . k . . . kept . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . there . . . s . . . some . . . times . . . d . . . despite . . . m . . . my . . . b . . . best . . . eff . . . orts. I . . . owe . . . h . . . him . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . and . . . th . . . there . . . a . . . aren’t . . . w . . . words . . . en . . . enough . . . t. . . to . . . ex . . . express . . . m . . . my . . . th . . . thanks. I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . ev . . . everyone . . . in . . . th . . . this . . . r . . . room . . . wh . . . who . . . kn . . . knows . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . h . . . has . . . a . . . s . . . sim . . . ilar . . . st . . . story . . . of . . . h . . . how . . . b . . . big . . . h . . . his . . . h . . . heart . . . is . . . h . . . how . . . m . . . much . . . c . . . com . . . p . . . passion . . . h . . . he . . . h . . . has . . . how . . . m . . . much . . . h . . . his . . . fr . . . friends . . . and . . . f . . . family . . . m . . . mean . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . him.” Sherlock held up his champagne flute, “T . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . gr . . . groom,” he said.

“To the groom,” the audience replied as they all took a sip of champagne. 

Sherlock took a small sip as well before setting the slightly shaking glass down.

“I’ve . . . kn . . . known . . . M . . . Molly . . . s . . . since . . . u . . . uni. O . . . one . . . d . . . day . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . d . . . doing . . . s . . . some . . . w . . . work . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . chem . . . istry . . . l . . . lab . . . wh . . . when . . . a . . . y . . . young . . . w . . . woman . . . h . . . her . . . h . . . hair . . . in . . . a . . . p . . . pony . . . t . . . tail . . . and . . . w . . . with . . . a . . . d . . . deter . . . mined . . . l . . . look . . . on . . . h . . . her . . . f . . . face . . . en . . . tered . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . room. Sh . . . she . . . a . . . asked . . . m . . . me . . . if . . . a . . . cl . . . class . . . w . . . was . . .. a . . . about . . . t . . . to . . . .st . . . start . . . and . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . s . . . said . . . n . . . no . . . sh . . . she . . . s . . . sat . . . d . . . down . . . opp . . . osite . . . m . . . me . . . p . . . pulled . . . o . . . out . . . a . . . t . . . text . . . b . . . book . . . and . . . w . . . went . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . gather . . . s . . . some . . . chem . . . icals . . . fr . . . from . . . th . . . the . . . fr . . . front . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . room. I . . . con . . . t . . . tinued . . . on . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . my . . . ex . . . peri . . . ment . . . o . . . only . . . t . . . to . . . n . . . notice . . . th . . . that . . . sh . . . she . . . w . . . was . . . l . . . looking . . . at . . . m . . . me.

“I . . . l . . . looked . . . up . . . in . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . warmest . . . br . . . brown . . . e . . . eyes . . . I’d . . . e . . . ever . . . s . . . seen. Th . . . they . . . w . . . were . . . f . . . full . . . of . . . cur . . . iosity . . . in . . . telli . . . gence . . . and . . . k . . . kindness. Sh . . . she . . . in . . . teres . . . ted . . . m . . . me . . . imm . . . ediately . . . as . . . sh . . . she . . . s . . . seemed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . so . . . d . . . different . . . fr . . . from . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . other . . . stu . . . dents . . . I’d . . . m . . . met. Th . . . there . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . fr . . . fragility . . . a . . . about . . . h . . . her . . . b . . . but . . . a . . . also . . . a . . . f . . . fierce . . . s . . . strength. Sh . . . she . . . s . . . saw . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . looking . . . at . . . h . . . her . . . and . . . in . . . instead . . . of . . . b . . . being . . . a . . . angry . . . or . . . a . . . asking . . . if . . . I . . . w . . . wanted . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . sh . . . she . . . sm . . . smiled . . . at . . . m . . . me. ‘F. . . first . . . t . . . time . . . I’ve . . . s . . . seen . . . you . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . labs.’ I . . . t . . . told . . . h . . . her . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . there . . . qu . . . quite . . . o . . . often. W . . . we . . . st . . . started . . . t . . . talking . . . and . . . l . . . laughing. Sh . . . she . . . t . . . told . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . about . . . st . . . studying . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . d . . . doctor. I . . . t . . . told . . . h . . . her . . . a . . . about . . . st . . . studying . . . chem . . . chemistry. W . . . we . . . e . . . ended . . . up . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . dinner. A . . . and . . . a . . . fr . . . friendship . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . born. W . . . we . . . w . . . went . . . ev . . . ery . . . where . . . t . . . together. Sh . . . she . . . s . . . sur . . . prised . . . m . . . me . . . c . . . continu . . . ously. M . . . my . . . f . . . fellow . . . s . . . stu . . . dents . . . and . . . h . . . house . . . m . . . mates . . . d . . . didn’t . . . l . . . like . . . it . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . de . . . duced . . . th . . . them. T . . . to . . . th . . . them . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . t . . . twat . . . and . . . a . . . fr . . . freak . . . wh . . . who . . . s . . . seemed . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . . know . . . ev . . . ery . . . thing . . . a . . . about . . . th . . . them. B . . . but . . . M . . . Molly . . . en . . . enjoyed . . . it. Sh . . . she . . . l . . . liked . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . d . . . deduced . . . h . . . her. Wh . . . when . . . w . . . we’d . . . s . . . sit . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . common . . . a . . . areas . . . t . . . together . . . sh . . . she’d . . . p . . . point . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . someone . . . and . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . me . . . d . . . deduce . . . s . . . some . . . thing . . . a . . . about . . . th . . . them. Sh . . . she . . . al . . . ways . . . s . . . seemed . . . s . . . so . . . a . . . amazed. 

“Wh . . . when . . . sh . . . she . . . h . . . had . . . t . . . to . . . p . . . pick . . . a . . . sp . . . specialty . . . sh . . . she . . . a . . . asked . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . th . . . thought. I . . . s . . . suggested . . . p . . . pathology . . . b . . . because . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . wh . . . what . . . in . . . terested . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . most. It . . . in . . . terested . . . h . . . her . . . t . . . too. And . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . st . . . started . . . w . . . working . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . M . . . Met . . . M . . . Molly . . . and . . . I . . . g . . . got . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . work . . . t . . . together. Sh . . . she’s . . . al . . . always . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . there . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . through . . . th . . . the . . . g . . . good . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . bad. Sh . . . she’s . . . f . . . forgiven . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . things . . . I’ve . . . d . . . done . . . wh . . . when . . . sh . . . she . . . r . . . really . . . sh . . . shouldn’t . . . h . . . have. Sh . . . she’s . . . b . . . been . . . m . . . my . . . fr . . . friend . . . m . . . my . . . c . . . confidante . . . m . . . my . . . st . . . strength. Sh . . . she’s . . . th . . . the . . . cl . . . closest . . . th . . . thing . . . I’ll . . . ev . . . ever . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . a . . . s . . . sister . . . and . . . I . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . her . . . l . . . like . . . o . . . one. Wh . . . what . . . e . . . ever . . . sh . . . she . . . n . . . needs . . . I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . th . . . there . . . w . . . with . . . it . . . b . . . be . . . it . . . a . . . h . . . helping . . . h . . . hand . . . or . . . a . . . sh . . . shoulder . . . t . . . to . . . cr . . . cry . . . on. And . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . that . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . re . . . cipient . . . of . . . M . . . Molly’s . . . l . . . love . . . is . . . l . . . like . . . st . . . stepping . . . i . . . into . . . a . . . w . . . warm . . . h . . . hug . . . as . . . I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . h . . . her . . . f . . . family . . . fr . . . friends . . . and . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . c . . can . . . a . . . attest.” He lifted up his champagne flute again. “T . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . br . . . bride.”

“To the bride,” the audience responded as they all took a sip of champagne.

Sherlock again took a small sip and set down the more noticeably shaking glass down.

“And . . . wh . . . what . . . c . . . can . . . I . . . s . . . say . . . a . . . about . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . and . . . M . . . Molly . . . t . . . together? Wh . . . when . . . t . . . two . . . of . . . y . . . your . . . b . . . best . . . fr . . . friends . . . f . . . fall . . . in . . . l . . . love . . . it . . . j . . . just . . . s . . . seems . . . p . . . perfect . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . it? Kn . . . knowing . . . th . . . them . . . s . . . separ . . . ately . . . you . . . w . . . wish . . . th . . . them . . . h . . . happiness . . . and . . . h . . . hope . . . th . . . they . . . f . . . find . . . s . . . someone . . . p . . . perfect . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . love. A . . . and . . . wh . . . when . . . th . . . they . . . f . . . find . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . other . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . t . . . two . . . b . . . become . . . o . . . one . . . you . . . c . . . can . . . s . . . see . . . h . . . how . . . th . . . they . . . m . . . mold . . . and . . . f . . . fit . . . t . . . together . . . p . . . perfectly . . . and . . . w . . . wonder . . . wh . . . why . . . it . . . t . . . took . . . th . . . them . . . th . . . this . . . l . . . long . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . discover . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . other. I’ve . . . s . . . seen . . . b . . . both . . . of . . . th . . . them . . . in . . . o . . . other . . . r . . . rel . . . ation . . . ships . . . b . . . but . . . n . . . none . . .. of . . . th . . . them . . . w . . . were . . . a . . . anything . . . c . . . com . . . ared . . . t . . . to . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . and . . . M . . . Molly . . . t . . . together. I . . . w . . . wish . . . th . . . them . . . h . . . happiness . . . and . . . l . . . love . . . and . . . I . . . h . . . hope . . . th . . . they . . . g . . . get . . . ev . . . every . . . thing . . . th . . . they’ve . . . e . . . ever . . . w . . . wanted.” He raised his glass a third time. “T . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . br . . . bride . . . and . . . gr . . . groom.”

“To the bride and groom,” the guests responded.

Sherlock took a final sip and had to use both hands to steady the flute as his hands were shaking quite badly.

The guests applauded his speech. Greg shook his hand and Molly beamed at him, tears of happiness slipping from her eyes. 

Sherlock felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He turned around to find John smiling at him. “That was wonderful,” John said.

Sherlock felt relieved. It had gone very well. He had worked himself up for nothing. He’d almost made himself sick worrying when he hadn’t needed to. The wave of relief that had come over him when the guests applauded and Greg and Molly seemed very pleased with what he had said was now quickly giving way to a tidal wave of exhaustion. Sheer willpower wasn’t helping anymore. He began to tremble all over, and it was a truly herculean effort to keep his eyes open.

The smile disappeared off of John’s face. “You look knackered, love.”

“E . . . ex . . . hausted.”

“Need a kip?”

Sherlock nodded, the motion of his head almost making him nauseous. 

John got up and disappeared out the door. He came back a few minutes later. “There’s a room in the back with a cot. They said you could have a lie in if you want.”

Sherlock nodded again. John moved between Molly and Greg and whispered to them what was going on. They both turned to him, their faces concerned. 

“I . . . I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . o . . . kay. J . . . just . . . n . . . need . . . a . . . l . . . little . . . r . . . rest . . . b . . . before . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . wedding . . . d . . . dance.”

“We expect to see you there,” Greg said.

Sherlock smiled as John wheeled him out of the room and into a very small room with a cot. It was obviously a storage place for the custodian, with mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies on the shelves.

John lifted Sherlock from the chair and laid him gently down on cot. Sherlock sighed when his head hit the pillow and closed his eyes.

John sat next to him on the cot. “Feel a bit better?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Want me to stay with you?”

“N . . . no . . . g . . . go . . . en . . . joy . . . th . . . the . . . rec . . . eption. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . ruin . . . your . . . f . . . fun.”

“Want me to come and get you before the dance starts?”

Sherlock nodded. 

John stood up and leaned over to kiss Sherlock softly on the forehead. “Get some rest.” He almost tiptoed out the door and closed it softly behind him.

It took only a few minutes for Sherlock to fall into a deep sleep. It seemed like only seconds had transpired before John was gently shaking him awake. Sherlock moaned. “Al . . . ready?”

“It’s been about an hour. They’ve cut the cake and made their speeches. Everyone’s moving into the dance hall.”

Sherlock sat up. His head didn’t swim this time, and he honestly felt better.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

John picked him up and sat him in his chair before he straightened Sherlock’s tux coat and ran a hand through his hair. “Still looking gorgeous,” he said with a smile. He wheeled him down the hall into the dance hall. People were milling around, some with drinks in their hands from the bar at the end of the room.

There was a DJ standing in a booth at the other end of the hall. There was music playing, but it was just background noise at the moment. 

Everyone started clapping when Greg and Molly came in. The DJ called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the married couple, Greg and Molly. Please clear the dance floor for the first dance.”

The strains of “At Last” began to play as Greg and Molly began to slowly dance. Everyone was smiling. Sherlock smiled too, but he couldn’t help thinking that, if and when he and John got married, he would never be able to have a first dance with John. And he had so loved dancing. Teaching John to dance for his wedding to Mary had been one of the best times in his life. Holding John in his arms, he had often imagined that they were the ones getting married. But he could never dance again, with John or anyone. 

As the song ended, everyone clapped, and another song began to play. Almost everyone joined Greg and Molly on the dance floor. John sat down on a chair beside Sherlock. 

“G . . . go . . . f . . . find . . . s . . . some . . . one . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . dance . . . w . . . with . . . J . . . John. J . . . just . . . b . . . because . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . d . . . dance . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . m . . . mean . . . you . . . sh . . . shouldn’t. G . . . go . . . d . . . dance . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . Rosie . . . and . . . M . . . Mrs. . . H . . . Hudson . . . a . . . and . . . M . . . Molly.”

“Are you sure you won’t mind?”

“Of . . . c . . . course . . . n . . . not. H . . . have . . . f . . . fun.”

“Can I get you anything first?”

“N . . . no . . . I’m . . . f . . . fine.”

Sherlock watched as John grabbed Rosie’s hand, and the two of them went to dance. John mostly danced with Rosie but also Mrs. Hudson and one dance with Molly. Sherlock felt alone and a bit neglected. Then that song came on. “Oh, What a Night” began to play, and Sherlock was swept back to the point in his life where he’d felt the most alone. Standing on the dance floor, surrounded by John and Mary’s guests, he had been blindsided by his own deduction that Mary was pregnant. And he knew that John wouldn’t need him around anymore. That he’d lost the only person he’d ever, or would ever, love. And his one possibility of joining in on the fun, Janine, had found someone else. He’d felt as if an invisible barrier had slammed down around him, keeping him completely and utterly isolated from the whole world. His heart broken, he’d left the wedding dance alone. John hadn’t even noticed him go. Nor had he bothered to even speak to Sherlock for a long time afterward. 

The feeling of loneliness swept over Sherlock again. Here he was, in a room full of people, and he felt alone. They were all healthy, happy, having fun. He was sitting, miserable, in a wheelchair. He smiled and congratulated Greg and Molly when they came over to thank him for his lovely speech again. He wished them a wonderfully romantic honeymoon. He and John had paid for a weeklong honeymoon in Paris for them as their wedding gift. 

Once and awhile, John would come over, out of breath, and with a drink in his hand. He’d sit and make small talk until he finished his drink and was up and dancing again. Rosie was having a ball. Everyone was telling her how perfect she’d been and how grown up she looked and she was loving all the attention. 

Sherlock pretended as best he could to be happy. He wanted to be happy, but the reminders of the past were too overwhelming. He hadn’t eaten, and his stomach was beginning to rumble. He was also quite thirsty but didn’t want to bother John. Mrs. Hudson brought him a drink after a while. 

“You looked thirsty, dear,” she said. 

“Th . . . thank . . . you,” he said. “I . . . w . . . was.”

“Having a good time?”

“It’s . . . a . . . l . . . lovely . . . d . . . dance. It’s . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . gr . . . great . . . d . . . day.”

“And you gave a fantastic speech.”

“You . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so?”

“It was marvelous. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a bit down.” 

“I’m . . . o . . . kay. J . . . just . . . w . . . watching . . . e . . . every . . . one . . . h . . . having . . . f . . . fun.”

“Oh, you poor dear. You did love dancing, didn’t you? I’m sorry.”

“C . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . helped . . . M . . . Mrs. . . . H . . . Hudson. C . . . can’t . . . w . . . walk . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . d . . . dance.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Do you want me to sit with you for a while?”

“N . . . no,” he said, smiling. “G . . . go . . . h . . . have . . . f . . . fun.”

She stood and bent over to kiss his cheek before she went onto the dance floor.

A few hours later, the crowd was starting to thin out. Around 10:30, Mrs. Hudson had decided to go home and offered to take Rosie home with her. A very sleepy Rosie had left with her. John returned a few times and was a bit drunker each time. When he finally returned after the last dance, he was wobbly on his feet. He collapsed on the chair beside Sherlock. 

“Wow, what a great dance. What a great time.”

“F . . . feeling . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . dr . . . drunk . . . J . . . John?” Sherlock said, one of his eyebrows quirked.

“Just a bit,” John giggled. “Tired, love?”

“V . . . very.”

“Let’s get you home, okay?” John took out his mobile and called for a cab. 

They went over and said good night to Greg and Molly, congratulating them once more. 

Sherlock shivered as they walked out to the waiting cab. John lifted Sherlock into the cab and fastened his seatbelt. When he climbed in and settled down, Sherlock leaned his head against John’s shoulder and, within a few minutes, fell asleep.

When they got home, John gently woke Sherlock, put him in his wheelchair, and put wheeled him inside. Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the sofa, watching telly when the lift doors opened. She said goodnight and went downstairs. Sam helped Sherlock get wash up, get undressed, and go to the loo before he helped him into bed. John had stripped out of his tux and was sitting on the end of the bed, looking quite woozy.

Sherlock was hungry but too tired to eat. Sherlock was almost asleep when John slipped under the covers and turned the light off. “Was really a nice night, wasn’t it?” he said, slurring his words.

“Yes. It . . . w . . . was. D . . . did . . . you . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time?”

“Sure, it was great. Haven’t danced that much in a long time. Lots of lovely ladies there.” 

“W . . . wish . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . d . . . danced . . . w . . . with . . . you.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I never even thought of that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone for so long.”

“It . . . w . . . was . . . o . . . kay. R . . . Rosie . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time.”

“She really did. She did such a good job and looked so cute in her flower girl dress. I’m really happy that Molly asked her.”

“I . . . s . . . suppose . . . sh . . . she . . . and . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . heading . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . air . . . p . . . port . . . s . . . soon.”

“I imagine. Too bad the flight was at 4:00 a.m. Though they’ll get into Paris and right to their hotel room for some lovely breakfast and making their marriage official.” John giggled.

“You . . . r . . . really . . . are . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . dr . . . drunk . . . ar . . . aren’t . . . you?”

“A bit. Haven’t let myself go for a while. Feels good.” He roughly pulled Sherlock into his arms. “How about a good night snog?”

“O . . . kay.” 

John kissed Sherlock hard on the lips, his tongue aggressively pushing against Sherlock’s mouth, demanding entry. Sherlock allowed the kiss to go on, though it made him a bit uncomfortable. John’s hands began to wander over Sherlock’s back, up into his hair, then lower, reaching down to cup his bum. 

Sherlock pulled away quickly with a gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked. 

“You . . . t . . . touched . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . where . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . ex . . . pecting.”

“What? On your arse? I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . I’m . . . r . . . ready . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . that . . . qu . . . quite . . . y . . . yet.”

John blew air out of his nose. “Fine.” He let go of Sherlock and rolled away from him.

“J . . . John? I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry. D . . . don’t . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . angry.”

John didn’t say anything, just pulled the covers up over his shoulder. 

“J . . . John . . . I’ll . . . tr . . . try . . . and . . . b . . . be . . . be . . . better. If . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . tr . . . try . . . it . . . a . . . again . . . it’s . . . o . . . kay.”

“Heaven forbid I should want to touch my boyfriend’s arse,” John said, testily. “If I can even call you my boyfriend. Seems like you’re more of a responsibility than a boyfriend these days.”

Sherlock gasped at John’s words. All of his fears . . . laid out right there. Did John not love him? Was he really just looking after him out of a sense of obligation or out of guilt? He felt the tears begin falling down his face. 

“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . I’m . . . s . . . such . . . a . . . b . . . bother . . . J . . . John,” he quietly whispered, a hitch in his voice. 

“Oh great, here come the fucking waterworks,” John sighed heavily. “I’m going out on the sofa. Let you get your cry in.” John picked up his pillow and the blanket from the end of the bed and stalked out of the room. 

Sherlock tried to tell himself it was just the drink talking. His John would never say anything like that. But what if this was his John? What if his John didn’t really exist? He turned over and quietly cried into his pillow until he fell into a restless, exhausted sleep.

In the morning, Sherlock slept later than normal. When he woke up, his head hurt. His eyes stung. His nose was stuffy. He wanted to forget what happened the night before, but it was burned into his memory. John wanted sex, and Sherlock just wasn’t ready for it, not yet. John was questioning their relationship. 

“Oh . . . G . . . God . . . J . . . John,” he whispered. 

Sam came in the bedroom a little while later with his medication. He asked Sherlock if he’d like to get up. Sherlock shook his head and laid back on the bed. He asked Sam to close the curtains and the door.

He could hear Rosie in the sitting room, talking with John. They sounded like they were having a good time. He looked over at the clock. It was after noon. His stomach was growling loudly but also churning with nausea. 

It had surprised him that John had touched him there. He’d been so patient, so willing to give Sherlock the time he needed. 

It was the drink, he told himself. That was it. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean to say what he said. 

Or did he really mean it, and the drink brought out the truth. Did John really think of him as a responsibility rather than as a boyfriend? 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. 

He laid there, quiet, his mind in turmoil. He wanted to know for sure, but at the same time, he didn’t. 

It was almost an hour later before John came into the room. “Hey, not getting up? Not feeling well?”

“I . . . uh . . .”

“What’s wrong?” John sat down beside him and took his pulse. “You’re cold and shaking. Are you really tired?”

“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . a . . . about . . . l . . . last . . . n . . . night,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . m . . . made . . . you . . . a . . . angry.” 

“Angry? I wasn’t angry last night. Drunk, yes. Angry, no.”

“Yes . . . you . . . w . . . were. You . . . w . . . were . . . s . . . so . . . a . . . angry . . . you . . . sl . . . slept . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sofa.”

“I thought I just passed out. I was pretty drunk. What did I do?”

Sherlock was hesitant. What if he told John and John remembered? 

“Please tell me. Did I hurt you? What did I say?”

“You . . . c . . . came . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . bed. You . . . k . . . kissed . . . m . . . me . . . r . . . really . . . h . . . hard . . . and . . . you . . . t . . . touched . . . ev . . . every . . . wh . . . where. I . . . p . . . pulled . . . b . . . back . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . t . . . touched . . . m . . . my . . . b . . . bum. You . . . g . . . got . . . m . . . mad. You . . . s . . . said . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . more . . . a . . . res . . . pon . . . sibility . . . th . . . than . . . a . . . b . . . boy . . . fr . . . friend. I . . . ap . . . apologized . . . and . . . st . . . started . . . t . . . to . . . cr . . . cry. You . . . s . . . said . . . h . . . here . . . c . . . comes . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . water . . . w . . . works . . . and . . . w . . . went . . . out . . . t . . . to . . . sl . . . sleep . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sofa.” Sherlock was crying by now, not daring to look up at John. 

John sat in silence for so long that Sherlock dared to look. John’s face was white as a sheet. Tears were dripping down his face. His mouth was moving, but he wasn’t saying anything. Sherlock was worried. He reached out with a shaking hand and touched John’s arm. “J . . . John?”

“I . . . I can’t believe I said something like that. Oh, Sherlock. Oh, love. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I don’t know why I would say that. I love you. I love you so much. You aren’t a responsibility. You’re the man I love. I . . . I should never have touched you like that. I . . . I’m so sorry. I upset you. I made you cry. I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re . . . s . . . sure? You . . . a . . . aren’t . . . m . . . mad . . . a . . . at . . . m . . . me?”

“Of course, I’m not. I was such a twat last night. I’m sorry, love.” John reached out and gathered Sherlock into his arms. “I don’t know why I’d ever say something like that.”

“I . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . worried. I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . sc . . . scared.”

John hugged him tighter and laid the side of his face on the top of Sherlock’s head. “Sherlock, if I could take it back, I would. I would never want to cause you any pain. And I always seem to. I drank too much last night. I should have spent more time with you. I saw you sitting there looking unhappy, but I kept getting asked to dance. And I kept buying drinks. I was having fun. I . . .”

“I’m . . . gl . . . glad . . . you . . . h . . . had . . . f . . . fun. I . . . w . . . wanted . . . you . . . t . . . to.”

“But not like this. How can I ever make this up to you? How can I make you trust me after what I did?”

“I . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . J . . . John. It . . . it . . . j . . . just . . . sc . . . scared . . . m . . . me. It . . . f . . . fed . . . in . . . to . . . m . . . my . . . in . . . s . . . secur . . . ities.”

“I know it did. And I wouldn’t ever want to do that. Love, please, please forgive me.”

“Al . . . always.”

“But you’re going to let this eat at you, aren’t you? You’re going to think about it and wonder if I really meant it.”

Sherlock was silent for long moments before he nodded minutely. “I . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . pr . . . promise . . . I . . . w . . . won’t. I . . . kn . . . know . . . it’ll . . . g . . . go . . . th . . . through . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind,” he said very quietly.

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. He was filled with guilt for causing Sherlock so much worry and grief. 

Rosie came into the room with Aurora in her arms. “Are you awake, Uncle Sherlock?” She saw her father holding him. “Are you okay?”

“I . . . I’m . . . j . . . just . . . t . . . tired . . . R . . . Rosie. I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . o . . . kay. D . . . did . . . you . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time . . . yes . . . ter . . . day?”

Rosie had a huge smile on her face. “I did. I had a great time. I loved being the flower girl. I hope one day I can be a bridesmaid. I loved the dress and getting my hair done and wearing makeup and getting to wear nail polish and carrying flowers. And Molly looked so pretty and happy. And so did Greg.”

Sherlock sat up and smiled at her. He couldn’t let his feelings overwhelm him. She’d done nothing wrong, after all.

She sat down beside them and talked animatedly about the day before. 

Sherlock’s stomach growled loudly and both Rosie and John giggled. “Hungry?” John asked.

“St . . . starving.”

John went out to make Sherlock lunch while Rosie kept him company. “Did you like the music last night?”

“I . . . d . . . did. You . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time . . . d . . . dancing?”

“Papa and I danced quite a bit and I danced with Greg and Mike and Molly and Mrs. Hudson. It was great.”

“I . . . u . . . used . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . like . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . dance,” Sherlock said.

“Really? Were you good?”

“I . . . th . . . thought . . . s . . . so. I . . . t . . . taught . . . your . . . Pa . . . pa . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . dance.”

“You taught Papa? He’s a great dancer.”

“H . . . he . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good . . . wh . . . when . . . w . . . we . . . f . . . first . . . m . . . met.” Sherlock smiled and started telling her stories about teaching John to dance.

They were both laughing uproariously when John came in with Sherlock’s lunch. “What’s so funny?”

“Sherlock was telling stories about teaching you how to dance,” Rosie said. 

John smiled awkwardly. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You . . . w . . . weren’t . . . th . . . that . . . g . . . good . . . ei . . . ther.”

“Eat your lunch,” John said, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. 

John took Rosie out with him as he went to wash the dishes. He felt incredibly guilty for putting Sherlock through even more pain. How could he ever forgive himself? Not only for what he said but for touching Sherlock inappropriately. Yes, he was John’s boyfriend, but John knew he wasn’t ready to be touched that way yet. What if he hadn’t lost his temper? What if he’d pressed Sherlock to do more? What if Sherlock had given in in order to please him? John shivered. He didn’t think he was capable of doing something like that. But if Sherlock had agreed, had asked even, could he have said no? He knew he couldn’t allow himself to lose control like that again. He tried and tried, but he couldn’t remember what Sherlock had described. It just wouldn’t come into focus. In one way, he was glad he couldn’t remember. He didn’t want that memory haunting him. But Sherlock’s tears, his wavering voice, the haunted look in his eye. That would stay with John forever. 

“You okay, Papa?” Rosie said. 

John almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard his daughter approach him. He looked down at her. 

“You kind of look worried about something.”

John plastered a fake smile on his face. “No, I’m fine. Just thinking about something.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe we should go to the park for a while. Sherlock’s got a therapy session this afternoon. We could go while he talks to the doctor.”

Rosie smiled. “Okay. Can we take Gladstone?”

“I’m sure he could use a walk.”

John went in to see how Sherlock was doing. He was slowly eating the sandwich John had made him and sipping first the soup and then his tea. 

“You okay?” John asked as he sat down beside him.

Sherlock nodded. “S . . . g . . . good.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’ve been thinking. I can’t allow myself to lose control like that again. I don’t want to hurt you. But I keep doing it. I’m never going to drink that much ever again. I promise. A pint or two at the pub maybe but no more than that.”

“You . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me . . . on . . . p . . . purpose.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t. But if the past is any indicator . . .”

“D . . . don’t . . . b . . . bother . . . a . . . about . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . past. I . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . past . . . t . . . too . . . rem . . . em . . . ber? I . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . f . . . faked . . . m . . . my . . . d . . . death . . . and . . . w . . . went . . . a . . . after . . . M . . . Mori . . . ar . . . ty’s . . . m . . . men.”

“And what did I do when you came back? Instead of thanking God that you were still alive, I tried to strangle you. I hit you. I told you to fuck off.”

“And . . . I’ve . . . d . . . deduced . . . you . . . and . . . h . . . hurt . . . you.”

“And I left you all alone after Mary and I got married. I didn’t even come by and ask why you left the wedding early. You went back on drugs, Sherlock. You could have died.”

“It’s . . . n . . . not . . . a . . . com . . . pet . . . ition. W . . . we’ve . . . h . . . hurt . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . other.”

“I can’t forgive myself for what I did to you.”

“I . . . h . . . have. S . . . so . . . l . . . long . . . as . . . you’re . . . s . . . sure . . . you . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . st . . . staying . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . because . . . you . . . f . . . feel . . . res . . . pon . . . sible . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me.”

“Of course, I love you. More than words could ever say. You’re my life and my heart. I’m just glad nothing else happened. What if I didn’t stop? What if you’d said yes because you didn’t want me to be mad?”

“You’d . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . d . . . done . . . a . . . anything . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that.”

John looked down. “I wish I could be certain of that.”

Sherlock reached out and touched John’s chin, gently urging him to look up. “I . . . am.”

John leaned in and touched his forehead to Sherlock’s. “I wish I had as much faith in myself as you have in me.”

“I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . d . . . det . . . ec . . . tive . . . you . . . kn . . . know,” Sherlock said, smiling slightly.

“I’ve done things that I’m ashamed of,” John continued, only speaking loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “I got my temper from my father. He was a violent drunk with a short fuse. He used to beat my mother whenever he got mad, and that was a lot. She tried to keep him away from my sister and me. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. She would send us to one of our rooms and tell us to barricade the door. But we could hear her screaming. Sometimes he’d beat her unconscious. There were days she couldn’t go outside because her face was so bruised that she was ashamed to let the neighbours see. But they knew. They’d call the police on him when they heard Mum or Dad screaming really loud. Dad spent many nights in jail. But Mum would never press charges. That changed after Harry came out. Dad was a militant homophobe. He screamed and stomped around the house before he beat the hell out of her. I tried. I tried so hard to stop him. So did Mum. But he pushed us aside and started beating Harry before he threw her out of the house. Gave Mum and me a lot of bruises too. I didn’t dare tell him I was bi. And I was so ashamed. Harry had stood up to him. She was true to herself. I was afraid.”

“You . . . st . . . stayed . . . t . . . to . . . pr . . . protect . . . your . . . m . . . mother?”

John nodded. “That was part of it, I guess. But she protected me more than I could protect her.”

“Wh . . . when . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . y . . . younger.”

“Not just then. I graduated from school and moved out to go to uni. I just left. I should have stayed and commuted to school. But I wanted out of there. I wanted to be free. I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone.”

“You . . . w . . . were . . . y . . . young. Th . . . that’s . . . per . . . fectly . . . un . . . d . . . der . . . st . . . stand . . . able. You’d . . . b . . . been . . . ex . . . posed . . . t . . . to . . . vio . . . lence . . . a . . . all . . . your . . . l . . . life. You . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . safe.”

“But I didn’t even ask her to come with me.”

“W . . . would . . . sh . . . she . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . left?”

“Probably not. But I didn’t give her the option. All I can remember is the tears on her face when I moved out. And the bruises. I didn’t want to see my father ever again so I only saw her when she agreed to come out and meet me for lunch or at the university. It made my father angry that his son wouldn’t see him, and he forbade Mum to see me. She could only sneak out when he was passed out drunk or working. So, I didn’t see her often. And that went on for years. I didn’t visit Harry that much either. I tried, when I first moved out, but she was angry with me for not being there to protect Mum. And she’d started drinking. She wasn’t violent, like Dad, but she was a sullen drunk. Then it just got easier to put my early life behind me. To put my family out of my life. I rarely thought of them.

“Then I graduated. I didn’t know it, but Mum was in the audience. She sent me a card telling me how proud she was of me along with a cheque for 500 quid. It made me feel so guilty. I went to the house and waited until Dad left for work. I knocked on the door. When she answered it, I was so shocked. She’d lost a lot of weight. There were deep circles under her eyes. There were bruises on her arms like Dad had been restraining her. Her eyes were dull, and she looked so sad. The house was a mess. Holes in the walls, torn curtains, liquor bottles everywhere. You have to understand. Mum kept a spotless house. I held her and started crying. She was so frail. As a newly graduated doctor, the possible things that were wrong with her kept going through my mind. I asked her if she’d been to the doctor, but she hadn’t. I took her to the emergency room and sat there, holding her hand. The doctor who eventually saw her immediately checked her in and started running tests. It wasn’t long before they diagnosed cancer. She had stomach cancer, and it was stage 4. They told us it would only be a matter of a few months. I stayed with her as much as I could. I called Harry. She couldn’t handle it. She had been seeing Mum in secret and had tried to get her to go to the doctor but she wouldn’t go. Harry was heartbroken. She had a friend who was a lawyer and somehow got a restraining order against Dad so he couldn’t come to the hospital. Though I don’t know if he even tried. None of us contacted him and let him know Mum was sick. She didn’t last long. I think it upset her to be without Dad. But she was happy to be with us. I felt so guilty that I hadn’t been with her. That I’d missed all of that time because of my own selfishness. And when she died, I swore I’d never treat someone like that again.

“After the funeral, I formally joined the army. They had paid for my education, so I eventually became Captain John Watson and ended up in Afghanistan. It was there that I finally gave into my feelings and started seeing men. I felt free enough to do it there. In England, I don’t know. I felt that I couldn’t be myself because Dad might find out. But the men I was seeing, it was never anything really committed. After we’d go out on a mission we’d come back to base and jerk each other off in the shower or sneak off and snog behind the tents. 

“Sometimes the pressure got too much or the reality of being in a war zone overwhelmed me, and I’d go off and get drunk and pick a fight or two. Sometimes I’d piss off the guy I was seeing just to see if I could drive him away. And it usually worked. My temper got me in trouble sometimes. Then, I got a message from Harry. Dad had gotten into a fight with a woman he’d been seeing. But she wouldn’t take it. She pulled a knife and killed him. I should have felt bad. He was my father. And there had been some good times. When he wasn’t drinking, he could be a nice guy. He’d take us to the cinema or to a football match. There were times when he was so nice to Mum, and they’d laugh and hug and kiss. 

“I really should have felt bad. But I didn’t. I was . . . I don’t know. I felt like I’d been chained down before and now I was let loose. The one I felt bad for was Mum. If she’d been alive, she would have finally been free too. She could have lived her life without fear or pain. Harry and I could have been with her. We could have been a family again. And I wanted that. I suddenly wanted that with my whole heart and soul. But there was nothing I could do. I didn’t request any leave to go back for the funeral. It would have been the height of hypocrisy to go and pretend to be sad about his death. It turned out there wasn’t a formal funeral. Harry had him cremated and buried in an unmarked grave in a graveyard clear across the city from where Mum was buried. She knew Mum wouldn’t have approved, but Harry was damned if Dad would be buried next to her. 

“And even though I hadn’t paid that much attention to them, I suddenly felt so alone. I was officially an orphan. And I was estranged from Harry. I hadn’t been serious with any of the men or women I’d taken as lovers. There was no one I would have considered marrying. And I wanted it. I wanted a partner. And children. I wanted to be in love. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn’t my father. Because that was my biggest fear. That someday I’d become him. That I’d become violent or say awful, hurtful things.”

“B . . . but . . . you’re . . .”

“I am. Sometimes I am violent. When you came back from the dead, I broke your nose, for God’s sake. And you know better than to be around me when I’m so angry that I do that angry sniff thing. And yes, I’m well aware that I do that. And I’ve said so many really hateful things to you. Like when I told that prat Sebastian that we were colleagues when you’d said we were friends. Or when I called you a machine. And last night just proved it. I said that being with you felt like a responsibility. 

“You could never be that. It took so long. So very, very long for me to face the truth about the two of us. I knew, subconsciously anyway, that I loved you from the start. I knew that we belonged together. And I even think a part of me knew that you weren’t dead when you went away. I should have told you when you came back that I loved you. Because I did. And I knew I did. I wanted to be with you, but I kept hearing my father’s voice in my head calling me names and telling me to be a man. So, I went ahead and married Mary. And it nearly broke my heart when you as much as told me that you were in love with me during the best-man speech. I stayed away from you after the wedding because I was really hoping that if I stayed away, my love for you would go away, and I could make a life with Mary. But it didn’t work. It couldn’t work. And Mary knew it. Somehow, she knew it. Honestly, if she hadn’t been pregnant, I would have left her to come back to you. I wanted to so much. 

“But I knew I owed it to my child to try and work it out with Mary. Even after she shot you. I denied myself the love I knew was waiting for me out of some sense of obligation. And then she . . . had you hurt and was playing with our feelings. And it was suddenly as clear as day to me. Like a curtain was drawn back. And you were there. You were there with that heart of yours. And it belonged to me. Your heart was mine, and I finally fully accepted that mine was yours. And it had been all along. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past, what happens now, or what happens in the future. None of it matters. As cliched and corny as it sounds, the only things that matter to me is that we’re here together. You and me and Rosie and, soon, the baby. And our friends. And keeping you here, safe and warm and with me is the most important thing. I want you to feel loved and cherished. I want you to feel the way you make me feel. Your love for me almost radiates off of you. It’s like sitting in the sun on the first warm day of spring. Or in front of the fire on a cool winter evening. It makes me feel incredibly good. Better than I ever felt with anyone. Ever. 

“In many ways, you saved me. You saved me from living a life desperately searching for something I didn’t think I deserved. And that something was you. It’s always been you. You make me whole. I’m not afraid when I’m with you. I was before. I was afraid I was like my father. I was afraid I didn’t deserve to be loved because of it. I was afraid that marrying a lying murderer was the best I could hope for and that I didn’t deserve anything more. And, sometimes when I lay awake at night or in the morning when I wake up before you, I look at you and I think how unbelievably lucky I was to have found you and how incredibly happy you make me.”

Sherlock looked at John, wonder on his face. John had opened up his heart and soul to Sherlock and let him see deep inside. Told him his deepest, darkest secrets. Held his arms wide and enveloped Sherlock body and soul. And Sherlock knew, despite his own feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness, that he would never, ever question John’s love again. It would be utterly impossible. The two of them were only whole when they were with each other. And now that Sherlock was whole, he knew he couldn’t go back to the way he was before. He would not. And, at that moment, he wanted John. All of him. He wanted with an aching intensity that he could never have imagined ever feeling for anyone. It shocked him, given the pre-John lifelong asexuality he had espoused. He felt like his love for John needed to be complete, utterly complete. And it would be. It would be one day. He knew that as certainly as he knew his own name. But he also knew that he couldn’t risk John’s life until he knew for sure that he was free from infection. 

He reached out with a hand shaking from emotion and touched the face that he loved more than anything in the world. He let his knuckles gently caress John’s cheek. He felt a single rough spot on John’s cheek that he’d missed when he shaved. 

The way Sherlock looked at him . . . The only word John could think of to describe the look was worshipful. The look of wonder and joy in his eye was overwhelming. Sherlock looked so innocent, so happy. 

“You’ve . . . o . . . opened . . . your . . . s . . . self . . . up . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me. I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . there’s . . . n . . . nothing . . . l . . . left . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . e . . . ever . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . . know . . . a . . . about . . . you.” Sherlock ran his fingers through John’s hair gently. He used his other hand to cup John’s cheek and run his thumb along his cheekbone. “I . . . w . . . want . . . you. A . . . all . . . of . . . you. R . . . right . . . n . . . now. R . . . right . . . h . . . here,” Sherlock whispered, almost purring. 

John felt heat rising in him. He swallowed. “Sherlock . . .” he began.

Sherlock put a finger against his lips. “I . . . kn . . . know. We . . . c . . . can’t. N . . . not . . . yet. N . . . not . . . un . . . til . . . th . . . the . . . n . . . next . . . t . . . test . . . c . . . comes . . . b . . . back . . . n . . . neg . . . ative. B . . . but . . . I . . . d . . . do . . . w . . . want. M . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . I . . . ev . . . er . . . h . . . have . . . e . . . ever.

“A . . . and . . . th . . . there’s . . . m . . . much . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . th . . . that. I . . . f . . . feel . . . ch . . . cherished . . . and . . . m . . . more . . . l . . . loved . . . th . . . than . . . I’ve . . . e . . . ever . . . f . . . felt. You’ve . . . sh . . . shown . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . what’s . . . in . . . your . . . h . . . heart. A . . . and . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . n . . . never . . . qu . . . question . . . wh . . . what . . . you . . . f . . . feel . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. N . . . never. It’s . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . hard . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . m . . . made . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . w . . . worth . . . l . . . loving . . . all . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. Th . . . that . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . love . . . w . . . was . . . w . . . worth . . . less. It . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . hard . . . t . . . to . . . ac . . . cept . . . th . . . that . . . a . . . any . . . one . . . c . . . could . . . c . . . care . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . me. Or . . . th . . . that . . . any . . . one . . . w . . . would . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . love. Pl . . . please . . . f . . . forgive . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . for . . . e . . . ever . . . qu . . . question . . . ing . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . tr . . . truly . . . c . . . care . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me.”

John smiled and reached out to touch Sherlock’s face. “Of course, I forgive you. I know how hard it’s been for you. I’ve seen your self-doubt. I couldn’t really understand it. I knew from the beginning that you were a good man. I knew you were brave and strong. And I knew that, despite the sometimes-prickly exterior you liked everyone to see, you were someone capable of great love. And you have no idea how it humbles me to know that I’m the one you love. The only one you’ve ever loved like that. The only one you’ve ever wanted.”

Sherlock smiled back at him, and John truly felt he was looking into the face of an angel. Of true and everlasting love. 

“Ev . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . I’ve . . . g . . . gone . . . thr . . . through . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . past . . . f . . . few . . . m . . . months. A . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain. A . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . h . . . hum . . . ili . . . ation. It . . . l . . . led . . . us . . . h . . . here. T . . . to . . . th . . . this . . . m . . . moment. T . . . to . . . th . . . this . . . r . . . rev . . . el . . . ation. T . . . to . . . th . . . think . . . th . . . that . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain . . . l . . . led . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . l . . . love. And . . . w . . . without . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain . . . w . . . we . . . m . . . may . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . f . . . found . . . th . . . this. We . . . m . . . might . . . st . . . still . . . b . . . be . . . wh . . . where . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . were. B . . . both . . . s . . . so . . . in . . . l . . . love . . . b . . . but . . . m . . . mis . . . erable.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . saying . . . th . . . that . . . I’m . . . gl . . . glad . . . I . . . w . . . went . . . thr . . . through . . . it. I . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . w . . . wish . . . it . . . on . . . a . . . anyone. B . . . but . . . it . . . s . . . somehow . . . m . . . makes . . . it . . . m . . . more . . . b . . . bearable. M . . . maybe . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . l . . . learn . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . with . . . it.”

John smiled. “I hope so. I really do.”

Sherlock leaned over John and gently touched his lips to John’s. John pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him. It was long minutes before they came up for air. 

“I . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . J . . . John.”

“I love you.”

“T . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . o . . . out . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sitting . . . r . . . room?”

John lifted Sherlock up and put him in his wheelchair, wheeling him into the sitting room.

“Uncle Sherlock,” Rosie said, looking up from her colouring book. “Papa’s taking me to the park later. And he said we could take Gladstone too.” 

“Wh . . . when . . . D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper . . . c . . . comes?” Sherlock asked. 

She nodded. 

“Th . . . that . . . s . . . sounds . . . l . . . like . . . f . . . fun. Br . . . bring . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . back . . . a . . . tr . . . treat?”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“S . . . sur . . . prise . . . m . . . me.” Sherlock smiled at her. 

She crawled up into his lap and hugged him. She showed him the colouring she had done. 

“Wh . . . what . . . a . . . gr . . . great . . . j . . . job. Your . . . h . . . hair . . . l . . . looks . . . gr . . . great . . . fr . . . from . . . yes . . . ter . . . day.” 

“You think so?”

“It . . . l . . . looks . . . gr . . . great . . . w . . . with . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . curls.”

“I think so too. Can you curl my hair sometimes, Papa?”

“Sure. On special occasions like picture day at school or parties or things like that. We’ll have to buy a curling iron. Remind me next time I go to the Tesco.”

When Dr. Cooper came, John and Rosie got ready and went with Gladstone to the park.

Sherlock told Dr. Cooper about what had happened. He told him how it was all so much. The feelings of loneliness and sadness at the wedding dance, John’s drunken fumbling the night before, John’s revelations, and Sherlock’s realizations. 

Dr. Cooper told him that the talk he and John had had sounded like a breakthrough. Like a real chance to move forward and to get on with his life. “I’m not saying you’ll forget what happened to you. But I think that this realization and acceptance of what happened will help you compartmentalize it. It’s a part of your life. But it doesn’t have to define you. It never has to define you. And your acceptance of the fact that, if it hadn’t happened, you and John wouldn’t have acknowledged your feelings for each other is a great step forward.”

“You’re . . . s . . . sure?”

“And your realization that you’re sure of how you feel physically towards John is also a big step forward.”

“I . . . w . . . wanted . . . h . . . him . . . r . . . right . . . th . . . then. It’s . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . s . . . sign . . . I . . . th . . . think.”

“You should definitely continue your touching exercises and start discussing options and limits. I think you’re ready for that.” 

By the time their session was done, Sherlock was still feeling very positive. He just wished that things could move faster. But Dr. Cooper had reminded him that moving too fast could cause a setback. And Sherlock had agreed. He hated waiting. Had always been impatient. But he understood the necessity in this case.

He asked Sam to make him some tea and watched out the window for John and Rosie while he drank it. When he saw them coming, he felt contentment and peace settle over him. And when John and Rosie came through the open lift doors, he smiled broadly. John came over and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

“How was your session?” he asked as he helped Rosie take off her coat. 

“Very good. Very positive.”

“Good.”

“We got you something,” Rosie said and handed him a bag. 

Sherlock opened it. A pastry box contained half a dozen heart-shaped biscuits frosted with red icing. “Th . . . they . . . l . . . look . . . d . . . del . . . icious.”

John made some more tea and poured Rosie a glass of milk. “Thought these were really appropriate today,” John said as they gathered around the table to enjoy the biscuits.

Sherlock smiled and squeezed John’s hand. 

“Uncle Sherlock, can I ask you a question?”

“S . . . sure.”

She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “You really love Papa, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And Papa, you really love Uncle Sherlock, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. I like that you love each other. I think you make each other really happy. And I really like living here with you and Gladstone and Aurora. And I like having Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly and Mrs. Hudson is like having a grannie. We really have a great family, don’t we?”

Sherlock and John both smiled. “Yes, we do,” John said as Sherlock nodded.

“Do you think Mrs. Hudson would let me call her Grannie?”

“Sh . . . she . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . any . . . ch . . . children . . . and . . . n . . . no . . . gr . . . grand . . . ch . . . children. I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . sh . . . she’d . . . l . . . love . . . it.”

“Can I go ask her?”

“Sure. After you’re done your biscuits and milk. We’ll all go down.”

As soon as they were done, they took the lift downstairs, and Rosie knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door. 

“Hello, loves,” Mrs. Hudson said as she opened the door. 

“Mrs. Hudson, can I ask you a question?” Rosie said.

“Surely. Would you like to come in? I can make tea.”

“We just had tea and biscuits. Well, I had milk. Papa and Uncle Sherlock had tea.”

“Oh. Well, what was your question, dear?”

“I was telling Papa and Uncle Sherlock how we had such a great family. How now I have Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly. I didn’t have any uncles and aunts before. And I have you too, Mrs. Hudson. You’re just like my grandmother. You look after me sometimes, you let me help you bake, you look after Papa and Uncle Sherlock. My question is: can I call you Grannie?”

Tears sprang to Mrs. Hudson’s eyes and her hand came up to her mouth. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, my dear, dear little girl.” She bent down and hugged Rosie tightly as she burst into tears. 

Rosie was a little distressed, patting Mrs. Hudson on the back. “It’s okay, Mrs. Hudson. Don’t cry. I don’t have to call you Grannie.”

“Oh, no, no,” Mrs. Hudson said as she let go of Rosie and wiped her eyes. She took Rosie by the arms and smiled. She looked her right in the eyes and said, “I would be absolutely honoured if you would call me Grannie.”

Rosie smiled and hugged Mrs. Hudson.

John and Sherlock smiled too. Now, their little family had officially grown by one. 

“You must stay, and I’ll make us a nice dinner to celebrate.” 

“You’re sure? I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble,” John said. 

“Why John Watson. It’s not everyday that a woman becomes a grannie.” Mrs. Hudson took Rosie’s hand and led her into the kitchen. “And I’d like my granddaughter to help me make dinner.”

They spent a lovely afternoon at Mrs. Hudson’s laughing and talking. And, true to her word, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t let John or Sherlock lift a finger. She and Rosie made them a lovely dinner. It was nearly Rosie’s bedtime by the time they went back upstairs.

“Th . . . that . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . n . . . nice . . . of . . . you . . . R . . . Rosie. You . . . m . . . made . . . M . . . Mrs. . . . H . . . Hudson . . . v . . . very . . . h . . . happy.” 

“I’m glad. And now I have a grannie. I can’t wait to go to school tomorrow and tell everyone.” 

“I’m . . . h . . . happy . . . f . . . for . . . you . . . R . . . Rosie. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . r . . . rem . . . ember . . . m . . . my . . . gr . . . grand . . . p . . . parents. It’s . . . n . . . nice . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . gr . . . grannie. A . . . and . . . you . . . kn . . . know . . . m . . . my . . . br . . . brother . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . likes . . . it . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . c . . . call . . . h . . . him . . . U . . . Uncle . . . M . . . Mycroft.”

Rosie smiled. “I love having such a big family.”

“And it shows you don’t have to be related by blood to be a family,” John said. “I’m really happy for you, pumpkin.” John went into the loo to run Rosie’s bath. 

Once Rosie was in bed, John came into the sitting room and lifted Sherlock from his wheelchair and onto the sofa before joining him. 

“Today’s been a helluva day,” John said as he hugged Sherlock closer. 

“I . . . indeed . . . it . . . h . . . has. It . . . c . . . cert . . . ainly . . . r . . . ran . . . th . . . the . . . g . . . gamut . . . of . . . e . . . emotions. B . . . but . . . I’m . . . gl . . . glad . . . it . . . h . . . happened. I . . . f . . . feel . . . cl . . . closer . . . t . . . to . . . you . . . th . . . then . . . e . . . ever.” Sherlock leaned his head against John’s shoulder. “It . . . m . . . made . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . see . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . and . . . s . . . so . . . cl . . . clearly. I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . soli . . . tary . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. And . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . al . . . ways . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be. I . . . kn . . . knew . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . d . . . deserve . . . a . . . anything . . . m . . . more. I . . . n . . . never . . . f . . . felt . . . att . . . ract . . . ed . . . t . . . to . . . a . . . any . . . one . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . al . . . ways . . . m . . . meant . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . lone. I’d . . . m . . . made . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . peace . . . w . . . with . . . it. B . . . but . . . th . . . then . . . th . . . there . . . w . . . was . . . you. A . . . and . . . it . . . a . . . all . . . w . . . went . . . a . . . away. I . . . kn . . . knew . . . s . . . some . . . how . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . s . . . supposed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. Of . . . c . . . course . . . I . . . d . . . dis . . . m . . . missed . . . it . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . l . . . long . . . t . . . time. B . . . but . . . th . . . then . . . I . . . d . . . did. And . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . sex . . . dr . . . drive . . . c . . . came . . . on . . . line. Th . . . then . . . I . . . h . . . had . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . a . . . way. Th . . . that . . . t . . . two . . . y . . . years . . . n . . . nearly . . . k . . . killed . . . m . . . me. I . . . m . . . missed . . . you . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much. Th . . . the . . . th . . . thought . . . of . . . c . . . coming . . . h . . . home . . . t . . . to . . . you . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . that . . . k . . . kept . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . live.”

“And I ruined it. With Mary.”

“It’s . . . a . . . all . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . pr . . . process . . . l . . . leading . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . today. I . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . so . . . cl . . . close . . . t . . . to . . . you. Al . . . almost . . . l . . . like . . . w . . . we . . . a . . . aren’t . . . t . . . two . . . p . . . people . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more.”

“I’ve never been a big believer in fate. But I believe that we are supposed to be together, Sherlock. And it makes me happy, incredibly happy.”

“I . . . n . . . never . . . b . . . believed . . . e . . . either. And . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . old . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . have . . . sc . . . scoffed . . . and . . . acc . . . used . . . b . . . both . . . of . . . us . . . of . . . b . . . being . . . ir . . . redeemably . . . s . . . sentimental.”

John smiled. “Yes, he would. But he’d be wrong. I’ve never felt like this with anyone. This is where we’re supposed to be. Together and here at 221B. I’ve never had anything feel so right in my life.”

Sherlock yawned. 

“Tired, love?”

“Exhausted.”

“You’re still not feeling well, are you?”

“I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . w . . . was. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . c . . . cases . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . music . . . a . . . and . . . r . . . re . . . b . . . building . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind . . . p . . . palace. I . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . time . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . sick.”

John put the side of his head against the top of Sherlock’s. “It won’t be long. You’ll be better soon. And we’ll be doing cases again left and right. And your mind palace. I can read your textbooks to you when you’re too tired to read them yourself. We can go through them slowly.”

“B . . . but . . . I’m . . . h . . . having . . . a . . . h . . . hard . . . t . . . time . . . rem . . . embering . . . th . . . things.”

“That’ll get better too. It’ll give us something to do.”

“Al . . . r . . . right.” 

John made them each a cup of tea and put a film in the DVD player. Sherlock fell asleep halfway through Spectre. John covered him up with the throw from the back of the sofa. When the film was done, John picked up Sherlock and carried him into bed. 

Sherlock woke when John laid him down. Brad helped him to the loo and got him dressed for bed before bringing him his medication. John went about getting himself ready and turned the light off after Brad had left the room. As he slid under the sheets, Sherlock came into his arms, laying his head on John’s chest. 

“J . . . John?”

“Mmmm?”

“W . . . will . . . you . . . d . . . do . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me?”

“Anything.”

“You . . . m . . . mean . . . it?”

“Of course, I do. What do you need?”

“It’s . . . j . . . just . . . T . . . today . . . wh . . . when . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . were . . . t . . . talking . . . I . . . w . . . well . . . I . . . w . . . wanted . . . you . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much. I . . . kn . . . know . . . it’s . . . n . . . not . . . t . . . time . . . y . . . yet. It’ll . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . while . . . b . . . before . . . I . . . c . . . can . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . my . . . t . . . test. B . . . before . . . w . . . we . . . kn . . . know . . . if . . . it’ll . . . b . . . be . . . ab . . . sol . . . utely . . . s . . . safe. I . . . I . . .”

“What? What is it, love?”

“I . . . n . . . need. I’ve . . . n . . . never . . . w . . . wanted . . . a . . . any . . . one . . . b . . . before . . . you. And . . . t . . . today . . . wh . . . when . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . were . . . t . . . talking . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . felt . . . th . . . this . . . w . . . wave . . . of . . . d . . . desire . . . c . . . come . . . o . . . over . . . m . . . me. I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . J . . . John.”

“I want you too. All the time. What do you want to do about it?”

“W . . . will . . . you . . . t . . . t . . . touch . . . your . . . s . . . self . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me? I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . you . . . h . . . hear . . . you . . . e . . . even . . . t . . . touch . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sounds . . . you . . . m . . . make . . . and . . . h . . . how . . . you . . . l . . . look . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . c . . . come. I’ve . . . n . . . never . . . s . . . seen . . . it . . . or . . . ex . . . per . . . ienced . . . it . . . b . . . before.”

“You’ve never masturbated?”

“N . . . no.”

“Never?”

“N . . . no.”

“Or seen a porn film?”

“I . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . it . . . w . . . works. I’ve . . . j . . . just . . . n . . . never . . . d . . . done . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing . . . a . . . bout . . . it.”

“You’re sure? I would kind of like to do it with you looking at me. It sounds sexy.” 

“I’m . . . s . . . sure.”

“But you can’t do anything about it. What if you get all turned on?”

“I . . . w . . . will. B . . . but . . . th . . . that’s . . . m . . . my . . . pr . . . problem. I . . . c . . . can . . . c . . . control . . . m . . . myself. I . . . h . . . have . . . e . . . ever . . . s . . . since . . . I . . . f . . . fell . . . in . . . l . . . love . . . w . . . with . . . you.”

“So, you said you never masturbated at all . . . and you didn’t even do anything to take care of it when you got . . . excited? I certainly did after I fell in love with you. Even imagined Mary was you sometimes.”

“I . . . w . . . wanted . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . only . . . one. I . . . t . . . told . . . you . . . th . . . that.”

“Yes, I remember. I just can’t imagine.”

John reached over and turned on the light. He pushed back the covers and got up. He quickly took off his T-shirt and threw it on the end of the bed. He reached down and took his socks off before he pulled his pyjama trousers and pants off. He stood there naked for a moment and looked over at Sherlock. Sherlock was chewing on his lower lip, his eyes wide. 

“You’re . . . s . . . so . . . b . . . beaut . . . iful,” he whispered. 

John could feel his face growing hot. No one had ever said he was beautiful before. Rarely had any of the women he’d dated called him handsome. More often, they said he was “cute.” He’d never really liked it but accepted that he might not be considered handsome. The way that Sherlock made him feel, though, was amazing. He could feel himself growing hard just from the way that Sherlock was looking at him. His face was shining pink. His eyes were half lidded and he was taking deep breaths with a small smile on his lips. But he wasn’t looking at John’s penis; he was looking into John’s eyes. And the love John saw there was overwhelming. He laid down beside him and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. Just being surrounded by Sherlock’s scent and feeling his warmth beside him was turning him on like nothing had before. It had been hard sleeping with Sherlock every night and not letting his mind wander. He’d waited until Sherlock was asleep a lot of nights and gone into the loo to take care of himself. 

But this . . . this was different. Sherlock wanted him to do this. Sherlock wanted him to satisfy himself in front of him. And there was just something so . . . hot about it. 

Sherlock reached out and ran his fingers through John’s hair as the kiss deepened. Sherlock broke the kiss. “S . . . show . . . m . . . me. Sh . . . show . . . m . . . me . . . J . . . John,” his voice purred. The deep vibration seemed to spread through John, going right to his core.

“Touch my chest,” John replied. 

Sherlock’s fingers traced between John’s pectorals. He tweaked each of John’s nipples. His hands seemed to be everywhere. John moaned softly as his own hand reached out, and he took himself in hand. He was already fully hard when he began gently pumping. Having Sherlock touching him made it all the more erotic. 

He ran the edge of his thumb across the slit, gasping at the contact. There was already pre-cum there, and he smeared it along his penis. He knew he wouldn’t last long. He slowed his pace, wanting to enjoy this time with Sherlock.

And then Sherlock started circling John’s left nipple with his tongue. 

“Oh God,” John moaned. “Oh, Sherlock . . .”

“T . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . how . . . it . . . f . . . feels.”

“Tingling. It feels hard but some parts are . . . soft,” he grunted. “The skin is like velvet. Each stroke feels so good and going along the top is amazing.”

“C . . . can . . . I . . . t . . . touch?”

“Alright.”

Sherlock reached out with a trembling hand and wrapped his mutilated hand around John’s penis. John was right. It was so hard but the underside wasn’t as hard as the rest. The skin was so soft. He ran his thumb along the top, and John jerked and moaned loudly. He brought his thumb back and sucked it. It tasted warm and salty. But somehow it tasted like John smelled, like sunshine and desert and soap. 

Sherlock moaned a little too. He could feel his penis growing harder. But he forced himself to watch John. To revel in his pleasure. 

John’s hand went back to his penis as he began moving faster and faster. He wanted to close his eyes and give himself over to the feeling. Instead, he opened them wide and watched Sherlock watching him. There was something so incredibly, amazingly sensual about it, that it pushed him over the edge. 

He came with a shout, bathing his fist and lower abdomen with cum. The orgasm swept over and through him. It was more intense than any he could ever remember. And it was because Sherlock was there. Because the man he loved more than anyone he’d ever loved in his life was there. 

Sherlock looked at him, tears in his eyes. “Th . . . that . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . beaut . . . iful. Is . . . th . . . that . . . h . . . how . . . it . . . a . . . always . . . is? B . . . because . . . it . . . l . . . looks . . . am . . . azing.”

“It was because you were here. Because you were touching me.” John kissed Sherlock soundly. “Oh, God. That was so intense. I . . . I just can’t imagine what it’ll be like to make love with you.”

“M . . . me . . . e . . . either. I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

“I love you too. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I . . . I’m . . . f . . . fine. I’m . . . s . . . strong . . . and . . . gr . . . grounded . . . h . . . here . . . w . . . with . . . you. I . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . e . . . ever . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me. I . . . kn . . . know . . . it . . . d . . . down . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . soul. Oh . . . J . . . John.” Sherlock reached up and touched John’s face. “I’ve . . . n . . . never . . . b . . . been . . . m . . . more . . . s . . . sure . . . of . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life.” Sherlock looked deep into John’s eyes. “I . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . and . . . I . . . tr . . . trust . . . you. And . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . that . . . wh . . . when . . . we . . . d . . . do . . . m . . . make . . . l . . . love . . . it’ll . . . b . . . be . . . un . . . be . . . lieve . . . able.”

John kissed Sherlock as passion swept both of them away. John had never felt closer to anyone in his life as he did with Sherlock at that very moment. 

It was long moments later before he broke the kiss, looking into Sherlock’s eye. There was so much tenderness there, so much love. 

“I’ll just get cleaned up a little,” John said as he pecked Sherlock on the lips and went into the loo to clean himself off. He came back in and quickly dressed before he turned off the light and got under the covers. 

“Th . . . this . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . best . . . d . . . day . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. W . . . we . . . kn . . . know . . . b . . . beyond . . . a . . . d . . . doubt . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we’re . . . s . . . supposed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . gether. I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we’re . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . happy.”

“We are. I know we are,” John whispered. 

Sherlock snuggled into John’s arms and laid his face against John’s chest. John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head, breathing in his scent. 

They fell asleep together, in love and happy, as the moon rose over London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait for this. I'm out of material that was pre-written. From now on, it's all new material so it may take a while to write fifty pages to post. I do have a lot of things I have left to cover so there'll be a lot more to come.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John suffer through some ups and downs. Mycroft visits, and Sherlock makes several realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this chapter. It was fun writing it.

The next morning dawned dark, rainy, and cold. John got up early, kissing a still sleeping Sherlock on the forehead before quietly closing the door and taking a shower. He dressed quickly and turned the heat up before going to get Rosie up. 

He found himself quietly whistling, and there seemed to be an extra spring in his step. He was . . . happy, content, at peace. Everything just felt . . . right. Like this was how things were meant to be. 

He joked with Rosie as he made her breakfast and made sure she had everything for school. She clasped his hand as they took the lift downstairs. She pulled away as they stepped out on the ground floor and quickly went over and knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door. When Mrs. Hudson opened the door and grinned down at Rosie, Rosie threw her arms around her. “Goodbye Grannie. I’m off to school.”

“Goodbye, sweetheart. I hope you have a wonderful day.” Mrs. Hudson squeezed her back and then bent down to kiss her cheek. 

John smiled as Rosie came back to him and took his hand. He led her out to Mycroft’s car and kissed her goodbye before she got in. He closed the door behind her and waved as the car pulled away. He darted back inside. He was already wet and cold, though he’d only been out for a minute or so. He shivered as he closed the door behind him. “Nasty day out there,” he said to Mrs. Hudson. 

“I turned the heat up this morning as soon as I got up. It was quite cold getting out of the shower.” Mrs. Hudson pulled her sweater closer around her. “It’s a good thing this wasn’t the weather on Saturday. It was such a lovely day for the wedding. It’s hard to believe that the weather could turn that quickly.”

“Nice day for staying in and watching telly in front of a fire with a nice warm cup of tea,” John said. “Want to come up and watch your morning shows with us?”

“Maybe later. I’ve got a load of wash in and have some chores to do first.”

“Hope to see you later.”

“I’ll try, dear.”

John went back upstairs and into the bedroom for a sweater. 

“A . . . are . . . you . . . f . . . feeling . . . o . . . kay?” he heard Sherlock say.

“Got wet taking Rosie out to the car, and it’s cold out.”

“It . . . is . . . quite . . . c . . . cold . . . in . . . h . . . here,” Sherlock said as he pulled the covers up under his chin. 

“I turned the heat up. Think I’ll make a fire in the fireplace. After you’re done your bath, we can sit in our chairs and have breakfast while we warm up. I invited Mrs. Hudson up to watch her morning shows. She has some things she has to do first, but I imagine she’ll be up later.”

“S . . . sounds . . . n . . . nice.” Sherlock sighed contentedly. 

“Anything wrong?”

“N . . . no. Th . . . that . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . a . . . b . . . bad . . . s . . . sigh. I’m . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . feeling . . . g . . . good.” 

“You’re feeling better?”

“Phy . . . si . . . cally . . . n . . . no. J . . . just . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . same. T . . . tired . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . sh . . . shaky . . . a . . . l . . . little . . . f . . . fuzzy . . . h . . . headed. I . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . better . . . e . . . every . . . o . . . other . . . w . . . way . . . th . . . though. Y . . . yes . . . ter . . . day . . . I . . . f . . . finally . . . p . . . put . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . many . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . fears . . . and . . . an . . . xiet . . . ies . . . a . . . away. I . . . f . . . feel . . . p . . . posi . . . tive.”

“I’m happy for you, sweetheart.” John bent down and kissed Sherlock on the lips. “I’m feeling the same way. Found myself whistling this morning while I got Rosie ready. And I’m feeling happy too. Happy to be here and with you.”

“I’m . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . happy . . . th . . . that . . . y . . . yester . . . d . . . day . . . h . . . happened. Th . . . that . . . w . . . we . . . f . . . finally . . . s . . . said . . . wh . . . what . . . n . . . needed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . said.”

“That’s always been our problem, hasn’t it? We always made assumptions. You loved me but never thought I could love you. I loved you and never thought you could love me. If we’d only talked, from the beginning.”

Sherlock reached out and touched John’s hand. “W . . . we . . . w . . . wasted . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . t . . . time. B . . . but . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . can’t . . . l . . . live . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . past . . . a . . . any . . . more. W . . . we . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . with . . . wh . . . what . . . ifs . . . and . . . wh . . . what . . . m . . . might . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . beens. W . . . we . . . c . . . can’t . . . l . . . live . . . on . . . r . . . regrets. W . . . we . . . g . . . get . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . with . . . wh . . . what . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . n . . . now. And . . . th . . . that’s . . . pr . . . pretty . . . gr . . . great. L . . . let’s . . . l . . . look . . . f . . . for . . . w . . . ward . . . n . . . not . . . b . . . back.”

John smiled and sat down beside him. “Good advice, love. We have so much now. We have each other. We have our family. And, most of all, we have love. That’s the most important thing.” He pulled Sherlock up into his arms. “We’re together. That’s absolutely all that matters. Not how we got here.”

Sherlock snuggled into John’s chest. “I . . . s . . . suppose . . . I . . . sh . . . should . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . my . . . b . . . bath. I’m . . . h . . . hungry.”

“Eggs and bacon? Toast and juice?”

“Mmmmm. S . . . sounds . . . g . . . good.” 

“Okay. I’ll get the fire going. Can’t have you cold.”

John went out to cook their breakfasts as Sam got Sherlock his meds and got him bathed and ready for the day. 

Sam wheeled Sherlock out after drying his hair and set him in his chair in front of the fire, tucking a warm blanket around his legs. John brought over a small table and put it in front of Sherlock’s chair before he placed a plate full of eggs, bacon, and thickly jammed toast on it with Sherlock’s utensils. He returned again with Sherlock’s cup, full of juice.

John made one more trip, bringing his own breakfast, and sat down opposite Sherlock. “Warmer now?”

“It’s . . . n . . . nice. Th . . . this . . . l . . . looks . . . d . . . delicious.”

“Tuck in, love.” 

After breakfast, John did up the dishes. He heard his mobile ding. As he let the water out of the sink, he opened up the message. “It’s a text from Molly. She’s thanking us for the honeymoon. Their room is beautiful and has a great view. They’ve been to the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower, but haven’t been out of the hotel that much.”

“Th . . . that’s . . . th . . . the . . . wh . . . whole . . . p . . . point . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . h . . . honey . . . m . . . moon . . . isn’t . . . it? I’ve . . . n . . . never . . . un . . . der . . . st . . . stood . . . wh . . . why . . . p . . . people . . . p . . . pay . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . wh . . . when . . . th . . . they . . . sp . . . spend . . . m . . . most . . . of . . . th . . . their . . . t . . . time . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . h . . . hotel . . . r . . . room. Wh . . . why . . . n . . . not . . . j . . . just . . . st . . . stay . . . h . . . home?”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, when we go on our honeymoon, I want to go someplace really nice. Maybe Italy?”

Sherlock smiled. “It . . . Italy? Hmmmm. W . . . wish . . . th . . . them . . . a . . . gr . . . great . . . t . . . time . . . fr . . . from . . . us. I’m . . . r . . . really . . . g . . . glad . . . th . . . they’re . . . h . . . happy.”

“I will.” John sent the text and finished wiping up the kitchen before he went back to the sitting room and moved the table back. 

“C . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . g . . . get . . . com . . . f . . . fortable . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sofa?”

“Sure.” John picked Sherlock up and moved him to the sofa. He tucked the blanket around Sherlock’s legs and sat down beside him. “Cozy, love?”

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock said as he snuggled into John’s side. “I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . it . . . is. I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . n . . . near . . . you. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . touch . . . you. I . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good . . . wh . . . when . . . I’m . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this. You’re . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . warm . . . and . . . c . . . cozy.”

“I love being here with you too. Before, I would never have thought you were a touchy-feely sort of guy. I couldn’t imagine you willingly touching another person. You just seemed, I don’t know, above all of that. I just got the impression that both you and Mycroft were beyond caring about your physical selves. You went without sleep, didn’t eat or drink . . . I just thought your body was never one of your priorities.”

“I . . . c . . . can . . . un . . . der . . . st . . . stand . . . th . . . that. I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . st . . . stand . . . off . . . ish. B . . . but . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . beyond . . . s . . . such . . . th . . . things. I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . att . . . racted . . . t . . . to . . . an . . . anyone . . . be . . . before . . . you . . . a . . . after . . . all. I . . . of . . . often . . . w . . . wondered . . . a . . . bout . . . th . . . that. Wh . . . when . . . I . . . w . . . went . . . thr . . . through . . . p . . . pub . . . erty . . . and . . . ev . . . every . . . one . . . at . . . b . . . boarding . . . sch . . . school . . . st . . . started . . . t . . . talk . . . ing . . . a . . . about . . . g . . . girls . . . or . . . b . . . boys . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . in . . . terested . . . in . . . e . . . either. I . . . b . . . believed . . . th . . . that . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . lack . . . of . . . s . . . sex . . . ual . . . att . . . rac . . . tion . . . f . . . for . . . any . . . one . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . asexuality. B . . . but . . . it . . . w . . . wasn’t. N . . . not . . . r . . . really. I . . . d . . . do . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . sex . . . ual . . . att . . . rac . . . tion . . . b . . . but . . . o . . . only . . . t . . . to . . . you. And . . . I . . . d . . . def . . . initely . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . touch . . . you.”

“And I’m certainly glad of that. To think that, in the whole world, you were only attracted to me and that I happen to be bisexual (though I wasn’t very accepting of that for awhile). What are the odds that we would meet? Seems like it was meant to be.”

“M . . . my . . . o . . . old . . . s . . . self . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . have . . . sc . . . offed . . . at . . . th . . . that. M . . . maybe . . . tr . . . tried . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . figure . . . out . . . th . . . the . . . a . . . actual . . . o . . . odds.”

John laughed. “Probably. Sometimes I question the existence of God. Especially after the things I saw in the war. But it seems that there has to be someone that brought us together.”

“Yes . . . in . . . deed. M . . . Mike . . . St . . . Stam . . . f . . . ford.”

“I don’t think Mike would quite consider himself a god,” John laughed. “But what are the odds that we’d both know him, that you and I were in London at the same time, that we were both looking for a roommate at the same time, and that I would happen to run into him in the park?”

“As . . . tro . . . no . . . mical . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . im . . . imagine. B . . . but . . . th . . . then . . . a . . . again . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . fact . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . born . . . at . . . all . . . is . . . o . . . one . . . in . . . t . . . ten . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . t . . . two . . . m . . . million . . . s . . . six . . . h . . . hundred . . . and . . . e . . . eighty . . . f . . . five . . . th . . . thousand. S . . . so . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . fact . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we . . . m . . . met . . . and . . . f . . . fell . . . in . . . l . . . love . . . and . . . th . . . that . . . we . . . we’d . . . e . . . end . . . up . . . s . . . sitting . . . h . . . here . . . o . . . on . . . th . . . this . . . s . . . sofa . . . prob . . . ably . . . aren’t . . . cal . . . cul . . . able.”

“Undoubtedly. But I’m thankful for the universe or whoever was responsible for bringing us together nonetheless.”

“M . . . me . . . t . . . too.” Sherlock looped his arm in John’s and put his head on John’s shoulder. 

“Happy, love?”

“Un . . . b . . . believ . . . ably.”

“Me too.” 

A few minutes later, Sherlock started yawning. 

“Tired already?”

“S . . . seem . . . t . . . to . . . al . . . ways . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . after . . . I . . . eat.”

“You did eat a lot.”

“You . . . m . . . made . . . a . . . lot.”

“Still got to get some more meat on you. You’re still far, far too thin.”

“As . . . th . . . that . . . t . . . tux . . . I . . . w . . . wore . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . wedding . . . c . . . cer . . . tainly . . . pr . . . proved.”

“You looked handsome.”

“I . . . l . . . looked . . . l . . . like . . . a . . . st . . . string . . . b . . . bean . . . in . . . it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you back up to a good weight.”

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock said as he yawned again, leaning heavily on John. 

“Take a nap, love. I’ll be right here.” He helped Sherlock lay down, pulled the blanket from around Sherlock’s legs, and wrapped him in it. 

Sherlock woke an hour later when Mrs. Hudson stepped off of the lift. 

“Morning, boys,” she said. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. “M . . . morning . . . M . . . Mrs. . . . H . . . Hudson,” he said as he yawned and stretched. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to wake you, dear.”

“It’s . . . al . . . right. I . . . n . . . needed . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . wake . . . up.”

“Let me make us some tea,” John said as he tucked the blanket back around Sherlock’s legs and went into the kitchen to start the tea.

The three of them spent the morning watching morning telly and drinking tea. John made them lunch, and Sherlock took a quick nap before Dr. Cooper came. 

Mrs. Hudson left when Dr. Cooper came, having some errands to run before dark. 

As soon as Dr. Cooper left, John asked Sherlock what he wanted for dinner. 

“H . . . how . . . a . . . about . . . t . . . take . . . a . . . away?”

“Okay. From where?”

“W . . . we . . . h . . . haven’t . . . h . . . have . . . Ch . . . Chinese . . . in . . . a . . . l . . . long . . . wh . . . while.”

“Sounds good. Rosie loves Chinese.” He picked up a book on forensics psychology and sat down beside Sherlock. “We were just getting into the chapter on eyewitness testimony, weren’t we?”

“Yes.” John opened the book and started reading. They’d got through the chapter, and John started asking him the questions at the end when Rosie came home. 

“Hey, Rosie. Did you have a good day at school?” John asked as she came over to him and kissed his cheek before she kissed Sherlock on the cheek too.

“It was okay. Math was boring, as usual, but history class was interesting, and we’re writing stories in English class. Papa, when are we going to start planning my birthday party?”

“Oh,” John said, smiling, as he pulled her onto his knee. “I suppose it is getting to be that time of year again. And how old are you going to be this year?”

“Eight.”

“E . . . eight. I’d . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . gu . . . guessed.”

“Don’t tease, Uncle Sherlock,” she said, giggling.

“So, you want to have a party. How many do you think you’ll want to invite?”

“Oh, let me think: Willow and Evie and Hallie and Iris and Olivia and Mia and Grace.”

“What would you like to do?” 

“Can we have a party here? We can watch movies and play in my room and have cake and pizza.”

“We could probably do that. On the Saturday after your birthday. You can have your friends over in the afternoon and then we’ll have a party after dinner with Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Greg, and Molly. How does that sound?”

“Two parties? Yes, please,” Rosie squealed and kissed her father. 

“Guess what?” John said.

“What?”

“We’re having Chinese takeaway for dinner tonight.”

“Yay! We haven’t had it for a long time.”

“Why don’t you get out your homework and get a start on that? I’ll get you a snack.”

“Okay.”

As Rosie began her homework, John brought her a glass of milk and some biscuits. He made tea for himself and Sherlock and brought a plate of biscuits for them too.

“Do you want to read my story, Uncle Sherlock?” she asked as she finished it.

“S . . . sure.” He took her story and began to read it. It was about a little girl who lived with her father and her father’s boyfriend. She had a lot of new aunts and uncles, a new grandmother, and was going to have a little brother. And even a dog and cat. And she got to be a flower girl and everyone told her how beautiful she was. And it all made her the happiest she’d ever been in her life. 

He found himself getting emotional reading it. It made him happy to know that she was happy. Happier than she’d ever been. “Th . . . this . . . is . . . b . . . beaut . . . iful . . . R . . . Rosie. It’s . . . a . . . st . . . story . . . a . . . bout . . . us . . . is . . . isn’t . . . it?”

“Yes. Do you really like it?”

“It’s . . . l . . . lovely. Is . . . th . . . this . . . h . . . how . . . you . . . r . . . really . . . f . . . feel . . . a . . . bout . . . l . . . living . . . h . . . here?”

“Course it is. I love living here with you and Papa. I love my new family.” 

“Th . . . that . . . m . . . makes . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . happy.” 

She smiled and crawled up into his lap. She hugged him tight, and he hugged her back. “Love you,” she said as she kissed his cheek.

“L . . . love . . . you . . . t . . . too.” He kissed her back. 

“You two are awfully cozy,” John said as he came out of the loo.

“R . . . read . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . st . . . story,” Sherlock said.

John read the story quickly. “This is really good, honey. And it’s all about us. I really like the end when you said she was happier than she’d ever been. That makes me really happy.”

“It made Sherlock really happy too.” 

He pulled her into his lap and hugged her. “I’m sure you’re going to get a great grade for this. All done your homework?”

“That was the last of it.”

“Want to watch some telly before we order dinner?”

“Sure.”

John turned the telly back on and found a movie for them to watch. Sherlock untucked the blanket, and John pulled it over all three of them. 

After dinner, they played some games and watched a few nature shows before John got Rosie into the bathtub and ready for bed. 

Sherlock sat thinking while he waited for John. He had something he wanted to discuss but wasn’t sure how to bring it up. 

When John came back down on the lift and sat down beside him, Sherlock turned to him. “J . . . John?”

“Mmmm?” John replied as he searched the channels for something to watch.

“A . . . about . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . p . . . party . . .”

“Yes. What about it?”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . sh . . . should . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . here . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party . . . w . . . with . . . h . . . her . . . fr . . . iends.”

“Why not?”

“It . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . awk . . . w . . . ward . . . f . . . for . . . h . . . her . . . d . . . don’t . . . you . . . th . . . think?”

John turned off the telly and turned to Sherlock, taking his hand. “Why would it be awkward?”

“Th . . . they . . . h . . . haven’t . . . b . . . been . . . h . . . here . . . b . . . before. I . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . bad . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . haven’t . . . l . . . let . . . h . . . her . . . in . . . vite . . . h . . . his . . . fr . . . friends . . . b . . . before. It’s . . . b . . . because . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . and . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . pr . . . problems. P . . . poor . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . m . . . missed . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much.”

“She has. But it’s not your fault. You can’t help that you’ve been ill. She’ll have a lot of fun at her party. She’ll want you to be here.”

“I . . . c . . . can . . . c . . . come . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party . . . a . . . after . . . d . . . dinner. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . em . . . barrass . . . h . . . her . . . in . . . fr . . . front . . . of . . . h . . . her . . . fr . . . friends.”

“Why would they be embarrassed?”

“L . . . look . . . at . . . m . . . me . . . J . . . John. I . . . c . . . can . . . st . . . stay . . . in . . . our . . . r . . . room . . . wh . . . while . . . th . . . they’re . . . h . . . here. Or . . . m . . . maybe . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . g . . . go . . . o . . . over . . . t . . . to . . . M . . . My’s . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . af . . . ter . . . noon. Or . . . M . . . Mrs. . . . H . . . Hudson’s.”

“You aren’t going anywhere. You don’t need to. Rosie loves you. I know she’ll want you at her party.” 

“B . . . but . . . J . . . John . . .”

“I don’t want to hear anymore about it. You’re going to be there for her party.” He pointed the remote at the telly and turned it on again, settling on a movie that was just starting.

Sherlock stared at the side of John’s face for awhile. Apparently, there was no arguing with him tonight. He shrugged his shoulders and settled in to watch the movie. 

When they went to bed that night, Sherlock asked John if he could touch him.

“How do you want me to touch you?”

“C . . . could . . . you . . . t . . . touch . . . m . . . my . . . ch . . . chest?”

John helped Sherlock sit up and take off his T-shirt. He turned the light back on and softly touched Sherlock’s chest, tracing light circles. 

Sherlock giggled. “T . . . tickles,” he said.

“Is that bad?”

“N . . . no. It . . . f . . . feels . . . g . . . good.”

John pressed harder; the circles getting larger. He ruffled his fingers through Sherlock’s black chest hair. “I love each and every hair,” he said, kissing him soundly on the chest. He looked up into Sherlock’s shining eyes. The iris of his right eye was blown wide. His mouth was slightly open. John brought his hand up and ran it through Sherlock’s hair. He softly kissed him. Sherlock responded with a hunger and a need that John recognized because it echoed his own. He wanted Sherlock so much. Wanted to hear him moan and cry out his name. Wanted to touch every inch of him. Wanted to be the one, in every way that truly mattered, to be his first lover. 

But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. Sherlock didn’t want to do it until after his last HIV test. And he wasn’t prepared to have John touch him everywhere. But that didn’t prevent John from giving Sherlock as much pleasure as he could. 

“Okay so far?” he asked. 

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. John ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair again. It floored him. Sherlock was so . . . He couldn’t think of a word grand enough. He looked like an angel in a Renaissance painting. Someone that Michelangelo would have painted or sculpted. Like David, himself. 

“You . . . you’re . . . so . . .” he whispered. “You’re so handsome, so absolutely beautiful. Oh, Sherlock. I can’t believe that I’m lucky enough to have you in my life. You could have literally had anyone you wanted, male or female. And you wanted me, an old broken-down soldier with PTSD, a limp, and a bum shoulder. And you made me better. You’ve made me a better person. And I love you. So much. My beautiful, mysterious, perfect man. My love.” John kissed him again and again and again. And he continued. Kissing his nose, his eyelids, his chin. Down that long, elegant neck. He licked at the moles dotting the alabaster skin. And then down to his chest. That strong chest no longer marked with scars. He got to Sherlock’s right nipple and licked it once. 

Sherlock moaned deep in his throat. He began to shiver as John continued to lick at his nipple. John reached out and began to circle Sherlock’s left nipple with one of his fingers. He pulled Sherlock’s now-hard nipple into his mouth and sucked gently at first then harder as he began to circle his other nipple harder before tweaking it between his fingers. 

Sherlock’s fingers caught in John’s hair as he began to moan louder and louder. His body was shivering. “Oh . . . oh . . . J . . . John,” he whispered. 

“Liking that, are you?” John asked as he looked up at Sherlock’s face. His cheeks were pink and glowing, his eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. 

“F . . . f . . . feels . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good,” Sherlock whispered.

John’s hand wandered over Sherlock’s visible ribs and concave stomach. He didn’t like it. Sherlock was so painfully, pitifully thin. He knew part of it was Sherlock’s high metabolism, but the last few weeks had been particularly hard on him. He’d come so, so close to enduring more brain damage. He’d nearly died. 

But here he was, squirming with pleasure under John’s touch. John looked down. Sherlock’s pyjama trousers were tented. Sherlock was visibly excited. John ached to reach down and touch him, give him more. But he couldn’t. Instead, he moved back up, kissing him softly. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked so turned on and so . . . disappointed. 

“I don’t think we should go any farther, love,” John said. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to over-stimulate you. I know you aren’t ready to go too far yet.”

“I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . J . . . John.”

“I know you do. We can’t push it.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . one . . . th . . . that . . . s . . . set . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . limits. I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . can’t . . . g . . . go . . . f . . . further. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . you . . . t . . . touch . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . all . . . o . . . over. Th . . . this . . . f . . . felt . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . im . . . agine . . . wh . . . what . . . it . . . w . . . will . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . t . . . touch . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . penis.”

“I’ve been imagining that myself,” he purred. He rested his chin on Sherlock’s chest and looked up at him, circling his chest with one finger while he put the most lascivious look he could come up with on his face. 

Sherlock giggled. “I . . . l . . . love . . . you. I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . so . . . fr . . . frust . . . rating.”

“You aren’t frustrating, love. If the run up to it is this good, just think how great it’s going to be when we do make love.”

Sherlock thought for a moment before realization dawned on his face. “R . . . really? It’s . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . th . . . that . . . g . . . good?”

“Would I lie to you?” John asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

Sherlock broke into a wide smile. “G . . . gives . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . look . . . f . . . forward . . . t . . . to.”

“You bet your sweet butt it does. And it’s such a lovely, round butt. I can’t wait to touch it.”

“You . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so?”

“Round and firm. Can tell just by looking at it.”

Sherlock’s face shone pink as he blushed. 

“There’s the colour back in your face, my beautiful, beautiful Sherlock.”

“You . . . r . . . really . . . th . . . think . . . I’m . . . b . . . beaut . . . iful?”

“Beyond gorgeous,” John whispered as he stared in adulation at him.

“Oh . . . J . . . John. You’re . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . hand . . . s . . . some.” He reached down and ran the tip of his finger down the side of his face. “R . . . rugged . . . d . . . dapper . . . st . . . stylish . . . k . . . kind . . . sm . . . smart . . . un . . . b . . . believ . . . ably . . . s . . . sexy.”

“Sexy? Don’t know about that.”

“I . . . d . . . do,” Sherlock purred. 

“Dapper and stylish? I wear the same thing all the time.”

“You . . . d . . . do . . . l . . . look . . . d . . . dapper. You . . . l . . . looked . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good . . . in . . . th . . . that . . . t . . . tux.”

“I’m grey and paunchy. I’ve got wrinkles.” 

“You . . . l . . . look . . . d . . . dis . . . ting . . . uished. Th . . . the . . . gr . . . grey . . . is . . . v . . . very . . . s . . . sexy.” He ran his fingers through John’s hair. “I . . . th . . . think . . . it’s . . . c . . . called . . . b . . . being . . . a . . . s . . . silver . . . f . . . fox,” Sherlock purred. 

“I’ve got love handles.”

“N . . . no . . . you . . . d . . . don’t.”

“Speaking of which . . .” John reached down and lightly ran his finger across Sherlock’s stomach. “This isn’t supposed to curve in; it’s supposed to curve out.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. I’m . . . s . . . sorry.” Sherlock looked chagrined.

“I didn’t say it to make you feel bad. It’s just something we have to work on. How about this? We work on you gaining weight and me losing a bit.”

“Is . . . m . . . my . . . w . . . weight . . . o . . . off . . . p . . . putting . . . t . . . to . . . you?” Sherlock asked, his eyes downcast.

“There isn’t anything about you that’s off-putting,” John said. “Don’t look down. I think you’re perfect. You just need to gain some weight.”

“You . . . pr . . . promise?”

“Of course, I promise.” 

“B . . . but . . . th . . . there’s . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . th . . . that’s . . . wr . . . wrong . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. M . . . my . . . b . . . back . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . legs . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . hands . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . n . . . new . . . s . . . scars . . . on . . . m . . . my . . . ch . . . chest . . . and . . . st . . . stomach.”

“But it doesn’t matter to me. It never will. You’re you. You’re perfect to me.” John reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. 

“B . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be. N . . . not . . . w . . . with . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . sc . . . scars.”

“They’re a part of you. And I love you, all of you. You just told me you loved my grey hair and wrinkles and love handles. They’re a part of me. And you love me, right?”

Sherlock nodded. “All . . . of . . . you . . . f . . . forever.”

John smiled. “Good.” He laid his cheek on Sherlock’s chest, twirling his finger through his chest hair. Sherlock sighed happily and put his arm around John, pulling him closer. 

They laid in silence for long minutes. Sherlock felt his eyes starting to close. He was just on the edge of sleep, in the twilight of consciousness. He felt warm and safe and loved. It was a feeling he never thought he’d ever feel for most of his life. But with John’s warm body against him and his smell surrounding him, Sherlock felt like he would never feel afraid again, that he’d always be loved. 

He knew that he’d never have to go to sleep cold, hungry, afraid, hunted, or unloved ever again. And that made him feel . . . well, he supposed like that Grinch fellow in the movie that Rosie had made them watch. His heart did seem to have grown two sizes since John told him he loved him. 

And this reminded him of his childhood. Whenever he’d wake up scared and alone, he never went to his parents’ room. He’d always go to My. My would dry his tears, tell him it would be okay, and hug him until he fell asleep. Well, he did until he went off to boarding school. When he’d come back home after that, he’d send Sherlock back to his own room, telling him to grow up and stop being so silly.

Except when he was high. When he was so high that he’d called My and make a list of what he took. My would come and sit beside him. Help him when he was withdrawing. And sometimes, just sometimes, when Sherlock was at his lowest, My would dry his tears, whisper that everything would be alright, and hug him until he fell asleep. 

And it was only there, in My’s arms, that Sherlock felt safe. Felt like the world that rejected him for being different, for being a freak, couldn’t get him. He felt invincible from everything, even from the drugs that helped him escape but sometimes wanted to take everything from him. No one could protect him like My. My would do anything to keep him safe. 

And it was only My that got to see who Sherlock was inside. 

Until there was John.

Now John was the one who kept him safe. John was the one who kept him going against the world. And he didn’t need the drugs now, not when he had John. And it was John who dried his tears, told him everything would be fine, and hugged him until he fell asleep.

And, even more than My, it was John who told him he was beautiful and who loved him unconditionally. And, for John, he had shut out the outside world with all of its pain and loneliness and embraced a life he never, ever thought was possible. A life of love and family and home.

For 221B was well and truly his home. The only home he’d ever really known. And it was John who made it that way. Without John, it was just a flat, a place to work and sleep. It hadn’t even been a place he lived in because all of the life left the flat when John moved out. But now his whole life was in these few rooms. It was where he slept and ate and bathed, but, more importantly, it was where he loved and was loved in return.

And so, feeling whole and at peace, Sherlock fell into an exhausted but happy sleep.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up and, for once, didn’t feel utterly exhausted. He still felt achy and a bit nauseated and weak, but at least he wasn’t tired. Maybe he was getting better. When Sam came in, he asked for a nice hot bath, hoping the aches could be reduced with heat. After Sam finished bathing him, he laid in the hot water for quite a while. The heat indeed seemed to sooth his body, and he felt even better. By the time he was dried off, shaved, and dressed, he almost felt good. The weakness was there, stronger than ever, but he felt like he might be able to at least stay awake most of the day. 

John greeted him with a kiss and a huge breakfast, though Sherlock noticed that he stuck to tea and toast without his beloved jam for himself. 

“J . . . John. I . . . t . . . told . . . you . . . you . . . aren’t . . . p . . . paunchy. You . . . d . . . don’t . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . diet.”

“I could stand to lose a few pounds. I won’t go nuts with it. I’m just going to eat a little less, and I’ll go on walks when you have your therapies. Got to get in shape. Soon you’ll be seeing me naked, a lot. And I want to give you something good to look at,” he said, reaching out to stroke the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“You . . . l . . . look . . . gr . . . great . . . j . . . just . . . as . . . you . . . are. You . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . ch . . . change . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me.” Sherlock turned his hand over and clutched John’s, giving it a squeeze.

“We’ve been eating well for the past little while, and I’ve put on a few pounds.” 

“H . . . how . . . m . . . many . . . d . . . did . . . you . . . l . . . lose . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . h . . . hos . . . p . . . pital?”

John looked down. “Well . . . if I’m honest, quite a few.”

“Th . . . then . . . you . . . d . . . don’t . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . lose . . . w . . . weight.”

“Well, maybe not much. But I want to get in shape. Gonna have a baby around here soon. Means lots of work and lots of lost sleep. I remember it was that way with Rosie. And if the baby is anything like her, he’ll be up every few hours for a month or two. So, if I’m healthier and well rested before the baby comes, I think it’ll work out better for all of us.”

Sherlock considered that for a few minutes. “Th . . . that . . . m . . . makes . . . s . . . sense. As . . . l . . . long . . . as . . . you . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . ch . . . change . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. I . . . th . . . think . . . you’re . . . p . . . perfect . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . way . . . you . . . are.”

“Surely not. In absolutely no way am I perfect.”

“T . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . you . . . are. You’re . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . silver . . . f . . . fox . . . a . . . after . . . all.”

“And you’re my beautiful man,” John said as he stood up and came around to kiss Sherlock on the lips. 

“I . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . better . . . th . . . this . . . m . . . morning.”

“You do? You should have told me that as soon as you got up.”

“S . . . sorry.”

“It’s fine. How exactly are you feeling better?”

“N . . . not . . . t . . . tired . . . t . . . today. And . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . achy . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . a . . . asked . . . S . . . Sam . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . run . . . a . . . h . . . hot . . . b . . . bath . . . and . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . a . . . achy . . . n . . . now. St . . . still . . . w . . . weak . . . th . . . though.”

John smiled and patted his shoulder. “That’s great, love. Definitely a good sign that you’re getting better. I’m happy for you.” 

“I’m . . . h . . . happy . . . t . . . too. M . . . maybe . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . can . . . g . . . go . . . out . . . th . . . this . . . m . . . morning.”

“Sure. Where would you like to go?”

“W . . . we . . . c . . . could . . . j . . . just . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . book . . . st . . . store. M . . . maybe . . . s . . . stop . . . f . . . for . . . s . . . some . . . tea.”

“That sounds great. Let me just clear off the table, and we can get going.”

It was a bright, sunny day but the wind was brisk. John wrapped Sherlock’s blue scarf around his neck, securing it just like Sherlock used to. 

“Th . . . this . . . is . . . n . . . nice. W . . . wish . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . w . . . wear . . . m . . . my . . . B . . . Bel . . . st . . . staff. I . . . f . . . feel . . . n . . . naked . . . w . . . without . . . it.”

“And you looked so good in it. So handsome. But you totally used to put the collar up so you’d look cool.”

Sherlock smiled at the memory. “I . . . d . . . did . . . n . . . not.”

“Yes, you did,” John said, smiling back.

“W . . . well . . . m . . . maybe.”

“It worked. You did look cool. Listen. One of your coats is still here. You could wear it. But to get it on, I’ll need Sam’s help.”

“I . . . th . . . think . . . I’d . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that.”

Between the two of them, John and Sam managed to get Sherlock into his coat. When he was sitting back in his chair, John gave him a thumbs up. “You look wonderful, Sherlock.” 

“Th . . . think . . . s . . . so?”

“You look just like you did before. All mysterious and cool.”

Sherlock smiled as he popped the collar. 

“How about the hat?” John asked.

“Th . . . the . . . d . . . death . . . fr . . . frisbee? N . . . no . . . th . . . thanks.” 

John laughed. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

They left the house and went the few blocks to the bookstore. They browsed through the stacks and each picked out a book. They stopped off for tea on the way home. By the time they returned, both had red faces from the wind. John put a fire on. 

“So, did you have a nice time?” John asked.

“I . . . d . . . did. And . . . it’s . . . s . . . so . . . n . . . nice . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . a . . . and . . . n . . . not . . . n . . . need . . . a . . . n . . . nap.”

“Don’t overdo it today, though. This may just be for today. You may be back to feeling tired again tomorrow.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. It . . . j . . . just . . . f . . . feels . . . g . . . good. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . d . . . do . . . m . . . much . . . a . . . anyway. I . . . st . . . still . . . f . . . feel . . . w . . . weak. I . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . lie . . . d . . . down . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . while.”

“Sure, love.” John picked up Sherlock and laid him on the sofa, covering him with a blanket. “Cozy?”

“Mmmmm. W . . . will . . . you . . . r . . . read . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me?”

“Of course. The book you just bought?”

“N . . . no. Th . . . the . . . b . . . book . . . on . . . f . . . foren . . . sic . . . psych . . . ology.” 

John turned to the page where they’d left off and started to read. Sherlock stretched out on his back and closed his eyes. Seemingly out of nowhere, his hands snaked up together and ended up under his chin.

John saw it, and it brought a lump to his throat. Sherlock looked so much like the old Sherlock that he could almost believe it was him. 

“Wh . . . what’s . . . wr . . . wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“N . . . nothing,” John said, clearing his throat.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, and John began to read. John read to Sherlock until the physical therapist arrived. 

Sherlock ate a big lunch, and he and John made out on the sofa until Mrs. Hudson came up, bringing them tea and biscuits. The three of them laughed and talked, and it seemed so much like the old times that Mrs. Hudson burst into tears and John shed a few very masculine tears himself. Sherlock smiled and gently wiped them away. 

When Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs, John and Sherlock cuddled on the sofa and watched telly. When Dr. Cooper came, John went out for a long walk.

By the time Dr. Cooper left, the achiness had returned to Sherlock’s body. And he was suddenly, terribly tired. 

“B . . . but . . . I . . . f . . . felt . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good . . . th . . . this . . . m . . . morning.”

“You’re getting better. There’re going to be days when you feel better and days when you don’t. But it’s a good sign that you had a good morning.” 

“E . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . a . . . aches. E . . . every . . . j . . . joint. And . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . c . . . cold. I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . sl . . . sleep.” 

“Let’s get you back into bed.”

“It’s . . . n . . . not . . . e . . . even . . . d . . . dinner . . . t . . . time . . . y . . . yet.”

“I’ll bring you dinner. After you wake up.” 

John and Sam got Sherlock changed back into his pyjamas and got him into bed. He was almost shaking from the cold. John got out a comforter from the wardrobe and covered him. He felt Sherlock’s forehead. 

“You’re a little warm.” 

“D . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . w . . . warm.”

“Sam, can you get me the thermometer?”

John took Sherlock’s temperature. “Up two degrees. Not too serious, but I’ll keep an eye on it. Do you want a drink before you go to sleep?”

“N . . . no.” Sherlock closed his eyes as John pulled the covers up to his chin and kissed him on the forehead.

“Get some rest. Sam and I will check on you. Call if you need anything.”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock cuddled down into the blankets and fell immediately to sleep.

John was worried. Sherlock had been so happy this morning. He’d enjoyed their outing and had been so much more like his old self. Now he was sound asleep and shaking from cold. 

John turned the heat up to try and warm Sherlock. He made himself some tea and started reading the book he’d bought. When Rosie came home, the two of them planned her birthday party. 

“Rosie?” John said.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” 

“Do you have any problem with Sherlock being at your birthday party?”

“Why would I not want Sherlock to be there?”

“Sherlock’s a bit worried that your friends might be upset by seeing him.”

“Because he was hurt? Because he’s in a wheelchair?”

“I guess so.”

“If my friends don’t like Sherlock because he was hurt then I don’t want them to be my friends.”

“Will you tell Sherlock that? I think he was worried.”

“Course I will. Sherlock’s not feeling well today. Hope that will help him feel better.”

“I’m sure it will. He was feeling good this morning. But he started to feel bad after Dr. Cooper was here.” John stood up. “I should go check on him.”

Sherlock was still sleeping when John went into the bedroom. He sat down and gently put the thermometer in his ear. His temperature was up another degree. He was sweating but shaking at the same time. John was really concerned. 

John uncovered Sherlock and went to get a cold flannel to put across his forehead. Sherlock moaned in his sleep before he woke up.

“J . . . John?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you. Your temp has gone up another degree. I’m worried about you.”

“Wh . . . why . . . d . . . did . . . you . . . un . . . c . . . cover . . . m . . . me?” Sherlock was shaking with the cold again.

“You’re sweating.”

“B . . . b . . . b . . . but . . . I’m . . . c . . . c . . . c . . . cold.” Sherlock was shaking. 

John bundled him up in blankets and brought him a drink. “Hungry, love?”

“N . . . no.”

“I’ll get you some paracetamol and the rest of your meds.” John went out into the kitchen to get the pills.

“Is Sherlock better, Papa?”

“No. He’s really not feeling well. I’m going to give him some medicine and let him get some more sleep.” 

“Tell him I hope he feels better.” 

“I will.”

John helped Sherlock sit up and take his meds. “I hope you feel better. Rosie hopes you feel better too.”

Sherlock’s eye was glassy, his face pink. Sweat trickled down his forehead. “T . . . tell . . . h . . . her . . . th . . . thanks. Oh . . . J . . . John. I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . g . . . good.”

“I know, love. I know. Did the paracetamol I gave you earlier help at all?”

“N . . . no. N . . . not . . . r . . . really. I . . . k . . . keep . . . sw . . . switch . . . ing . . . b . . . between . . . h . . . hot . . . and . . . c . . . cold. I . . . h . . . hurt . . . a . . . and . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . w . . . weak. I . . . c . . . can . . . h . . . hardly . . . m . . . move.”

“It’s not fair. You were feeling so good earlier.”

“Pl . . . please . . . g . . . give . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing.”

“I can’t give you too much. I’ve got some flu meds.”

Sherlock’s teeth began to chatter. “C . . . c . . . cold.”

John covered him up and went to get the meds. 

“Sherlock’s feeling really bad, honey. I’m gonna stay with him until he falls asleep. I’ll ask Sam to stay with you, okay?”

“Sure, Papa.”

John hurried back into the bedroom and helped Sherlock take the meds. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s sweat-soaked hair, whispering quietly to him to get him to settle. 

It didn’t take long before Sherlock fell into a troubled sleep.

When John was sure he was asleep, he went out to make dinner for Rosie. He wasn’t feeling hungry himself but forced himself to eat. He watched Rosie do her homework as he sipped tea. They watched the telly for awhile before he read her a long story and got her ready for bed. 

He got himself ready for bed and slipped between the sheets. Heat was coming off of Sherlock in waves. He checked Sherlock’s temperature once more. It was about the same as before, but at least it hadn’t risen. 

He kissed Sherlock on the forehead and straightened the quilts over him before he settled in to sleep himself. 

Sherlock woke a few times during the night, but his temperature didn’t rise. John would make sure to bring him drinks and wet flannels. And by morning, the fever broke. 

John was exhausted himself when he got up to get Rosie ready for school. He just put on his dressing gown as he made her breakfast and made sure she had everything. When he took her downstairs, he knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door and asked her if she could take Rosie out to the car.

“Oh, John. You look dreadful. Rough night?”

“Sherlock’s been sick. He was up a few times. I didn’t get much sleep. Going back up and have a lie down for awhile.”

“I hope you get some sleep, Papa.”

He bent down to kiss Rosie on the cheek. “I will. Have a good day at school, honey.”

“I will. Bye, Papa.” 

John took the lift back upstairs and went back into the bedroom. Sherlock was still asleep. He pulled the heavy curtains closed and shut the door. He laid awake for awhile listening to Sherlock’s deep breaths before he fell asleep. 

As he fell into a deeper sleep, John began to dream. 

Sherlock was laying in bed. John was changing into his pyjamas.

“You don’t need those,” Sherlock’s voice purred, low and rumbly. 

John turned quickly. There’d been no hint of a stutter. Sherlock was laying on top of the covers, completely naked. And whole. His legs weren’t mutilated. His hands weren’t missing any fingers. The scars on his chest from the stabbing were gone. So was the small round scar where Mary had shot him.

“Love?” John said. “How . . .?”

“You wanted me this way, didn’t you?” he asked as he stood up. The long, lean form stood before him, pale and beautiful. 

“Yes. Oh, yes,” John said as he reached out and touched Sherlock’s alabaster skin. 

Sherlock closed the distance between them and pressed his lips against John’s. John nearly fell backwards but Sherlock’s strong arms pulled him closer. John’s arms came around Sherlock. He nearly broke the kiss when he realized there were no scars on Sherlock’s back. 

It was his Sherlock, the way he yearned for him to be. He could feel Sherlock growing hard against his stomach. Sherlock broke the kiss and looked into John’s eyes. John felt naked under that gaze, like there wasn’t anything of him that Sherlock couldn’t see. He felt his heart, his mind, his soul all laid open before Sherlock. 

And Sherlock smiled. His eyes twinkled. “I love you,” he whispered. 

John was overwhelmed with love. “I . . . I . . . love you so much.” 

Sherlock began to kiss down John’s neck, down his chest, across his stomach.

John watched him go down until he was on his knees. Sherlock raised his arms, and ran his hands down John’s torso, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. Sherlock licked his lips once and suddenly his tongue was licking at John’s penis through his pants. 

John threw his head back and moaned loudly. It felt so good. Sherlock’s mouth was so warm as it nipped at John. And he felt himself growing harder and harder the more Sherlock licked. He found his fingers curling in Sherlock’s hair. He wanted more. He wanted Sherlock’s mouth on his penis, not through the cloth. 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock pulled John’s pants to the floor and then stood up. He reached out and took John’s hand and led him to the bed. He pulled back the covers and reached down to lift John into his arms. John’s arms came around Sherlock’s neck as they kissed, long and deep, before Sherlock laid him out on the bed. 

He stopped then, and his eyes travelled from the top of John’s head to the tip of his toes. “Oh, God. So handsome. I love every part of you, John Hamish Watson. I can’t believe that you love me. I want you so much it hurts.”

“Then come here, love. Be with me. Be mine and I’ll be yours.”

Sherlock smiled and walked around to the other side of the bed, laying down beside John. 

John turned on his side to face Sherlock, and they just looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed like forever. Sherlock reached out and caressed John’s face. John reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. “Kiss me, love,” John whispered. 

Sherlock moved closer to John and touched his lips gently to John’s. John immediately found himself surrounded by Sherlock’s taste, his smell, his touch, and wrapped in his arms. He could feel all of Sherlock’s body against his. How he’d longed for this. Since the first day that he’d realized he loved him. All those nights, laying next to his wife, imagining making love to the beautiful creature that was in his arms. 

Sherlock pushed John over on his back and followed him. He began to kiss down his neck then his chest, stopping to suck on John’s nipples until they were hard before he went lower, burying his nose in John’s greying pubic hair before he settled between John’s legs. John’s penis was so hard it was laying straight on John’s stomach. 

“John, look at me,” he heard a low voice say. John looked down into Sherlock’s face. His pupils were blown wide with hardly any of the iris visible. His face was pink. He was so handsome and looked so debauched that John froze, mesmerized. Then Sherlock leaned forward and licked up the entire length of John’s penis. 

John’s head reared back as he shouted, “Oh, God . . . Sherlock!”

By the time his head cleared even a little bit, Sherlock’s warm mouth was surrounding his penis, and he was moving up and down, sucking deeply. 

John knew he couldn’t last long. It felt amazing. His hands clenched the sheets as he bit his lip to keep from shouting again.

He could feel the orgasm building in him, when Sherlock stopped.

John couldn’t keep himself from whining at the loss of contact. He looked down at Sherlock’s smiling face.

“I want you, John,” Sherlock purred. “I want you inside me.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock crawled back up the bed and laid on his back. He suddenly had a tube of lube in his hand and gave it to John. 

John quickly got up on his knees and moved in between Sherlock’s spread legs. There was nothing in the world he wanted now more than to be inside Sherlock. He lubed up his fingers and gently touched his hole. Sherlock moaned and his already fully hard penis twitched. John’s fingers circled Sherlock’s hole gently and then harder until he barely penetrated him with the tip of his index finger. Sherlock clenched around him, but as John slowly eased his finger in and out, he relaxed. 

“More,” Sherlock moaned, his forearm across his eyes.

“You sure?”

Sherlock nodded.

John removed his finger and put more lube on before he put two fingers to Sherlock’s entrance and slowly, oh so slowly pushed in. Sherlock clenched around him again but relaxed quicker. Slowly, John moved in and out, gradually scissoring his fingers. When he thought he’d done enough, he added a third finger. Sherlock moaned louder, and his penis twitched again. 

After a very few minutes, he moaned. “Please, John. Please.”

John took out is fingers and wiped them on the sheets before he lubed up his penis. He settled in between Sherlock’s legs. 

“Look at me, love,” he said.

Sherlock moved his forearm away from his face. The look on his face was so full of love and trust. John gently pushed in. Sherlock briefly winced and then groaned. 

“Oh, God, Sherlock. You’re so . . . tight,” John moaned and continued to push in until he was fully seated. He stopped and savoured the feeling.

“Move, John. Please, please move.” 

John began to slowly move forward and back. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before. It didn’t feel the same as making love to a woman, and he’d never had anal sex with a man before. Sherlock writhed under him. John reached out and touched Sherlock’s leaking penis, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Every second or third thrust, Sherlock trembled hard, and John realized he was hitting Sherlock’s prostate. 

“John . . . John . . . Oh, John. Keep going. I think . . . I think I’m coming.”

John sped up and watched as Sherlock froze and then started to orgasm. John watched his eyes roll back in his head and his head forced back as he screamed John’s name. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

And it was no more than a few moments later before he felt the orgasm building inside him. He cried out as it washed over him. It was the most intense orgasm he’d ever experienced. Better than with any partner he’d ever had. 

As the last tremor faded from his body, he found himself on top of Sherlock. Sherlock’s hands came up to the sides of John’s face and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

“That was fantastic,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Enjoyed it, did you?” John asked, smiling.

“For the first time, it was amazing. I’d like to spend the rest of my life doing that with you.”

“Me too,” John replied, kissing him again. 

“It’s a bit messy, though,” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah. I guess we are sort of sticking to each other.” John got up. “I’ll go get a flannel and clean us up. Be right back.” 

John washed himself off and got a clean, damp flannel from the loo. When he went back into the bedroom, it was dark. John couldn’t understand it. He’d only been gone a few minutes. He turned the light on. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was laying on his side, away from John and wrapped in a blanket. He was shaking hard. John could hear muffled sobs. 

“Love? What’s wrong?” John sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“N . . . no,” Sherlock said and pulled away. 

“What is it? Why are you crying? I thought you enjoyed it. Did I hurt you?” The blanket fell away from Sherlock’s shoulder. His back was badly scarred. “Oh, God . . . Sherlock?” He pulled Sherlock over onto his back. Tears ran down his face, and he was sobbing. There was fear in his eyes. He was afraid of John.

“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

Sherlock nodded as his eyes widened. 

“What’s wrong?” He pulled the blanket from around Sherlock and checked him over. Sherlock began to keen deep in his throat. He tried to pull the blanket back over his nakedness. John didn’t see any wounds until he looked down further. There was blood between Sherlock’s legs. 

“Oh, God, what . . . what happened?”

“Y . . . you . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me,” Sherlock stuttered, pulling away from him.

“No. We made love. You wanted me to. You weren’t the same. You didn’t have any scars. You could walk. You . . .” John looked down into Sherlock’s terrified and confused face. “B . . . but I couldn’t have. I would never hurt you, Sherlock. You know that. I could never, ever . . .” A growing realization swept through him. “I . . . I hurt you? But that’s impossible.” He looked down. His penis was dripping with Sherlock’s blood. “No. No. I couldn’t have.” He looked down again into the terrified look on Sherlock’s face. He stood up and backed up until he was fetched up by the wall. “No. No! No! NO! NO!”

John woke and sat up, screaming, “NO!” He was breathing hard. It was dark in the room. But it was their bedroom. 

“J . . . John?” he heard as he felt a hand touch his arm. He pulled away, almost falling off the bed. 

The door opened, and the overhead light came on. “Dr. Watson . . . are you alright?” he heard Brad ask.

Blinded by the light, John reached out and found Sherlock beside him. 

“Wh . . . what’s . . . wr . . . wrong?” he asked, confusion and concern on his face.

“You’re okay? You’re not hurt?” John asked as he reached out and touched Sherlock’s face.

“N . . . no. I’m . . . n . . . not . . . h . . . hurt. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . w . . . well . . . b . . . but . . . I’m . . . o . . . kay.”

John swept Sherlock into his arms. “Oh, thank God. It was a terrible dream. An awful, terrible dream.” 

“You’re okay, Dr. Watson?” Brad asked.

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m sorry for disturbing you.” 

“Just glad everything’s okay.” Brad turned off the light and shut the door.

“Wh . . . what . . . w . . . was . . . it . . . J . . . John?” Sherlock asked.

John laid back down with Sherlock in his arms. “You . . . were . . . hurt,” he said slowly. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Sherlock that he was the one who had hurt him, especially not in that way. He couldn’t believe that he had dreamed such a thing. 

Sherlock gave John a weak squeeze around the torso. “N . . . no . . . one . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me . . . n . . . now. You . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . l . . . let . . . th . . . them.” He sighed. “It’s . . . o . . . kay. I . . . kn . . . know . . . I’m . . . s . . . safe . . . as . . . l . . . long . . . as . . . you’re . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me.” He cuddled into John’s chest. 

The look on dream Sherlock’s face haunted John every time he closed his eyes. He’d looked so afraid, so betrayed. He knew it was just a dream and that it didn’t mean anything. It was his subconscious, obviously. Maybe he was just worried that Sherlock was right. That he wouldn’t be able to let himself go when they had sex. That he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. He’d completely enjoyed himself in the dream and then it had turned into something absolutely horrible. Was his fear so deep seeded that it would be impossible for him to enjoy any type of sex with Sherlock? 

He’d enjoyed, truly enjoyed, Sherlock touching him the other night. But would that be enough? He so wanted to feel what it would be like to be inside Sherlock. But he knew that Sherlock probably would never be ready for that.

He found himself trembling. He looked at the clock on his mobile. It was 4:17. He knew he couldn’t sleep any more. He carefully moved Sherlock, who nearly woke but then settled back to sleep. He was warm. John checked his temperature. It was up a degree and a half. He didn’t like that his symptoms were getting better then worse. He covered him up and kissed his forehead. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Emotion overwhelmed him. He felt tears dripping between his fingers as he silently wept. He knew he could never tell Sherlock what was in the dream. He wouldn’t put him through that. Sherlock already had enough of a self-esteem problem. He certainly didn’t need to know that John had dreamed of having sex with him, but only the before Sherlock. To be honest, he’d mostly only ever fantasized about the before Sherlock, especially when he’d been with someone else. 

But he had to stop that. The before Sherlock was gone. Not just his physical body but his mind was different. He had to believe, and he did in his heart of hearts, that Sherlock’s heart was the same as it had been. The before Sherlock had loved him. The now Sherlock loved him and always would. 

And John loved him. He’d loved the before Sherlock, and he loved the now Sherlock. He wouldn’t lie to himself. The love he’d felt before was different from how he felt now. Not any less, not at all. Just . . . different. 

He really needed to talk to someone. He certainly couldn’t talk to Sherlock about this. And he wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to anyone who was friends with Sherlock either; so that meant he couldn’t talk to Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, or even Mike. Maybe he could talk to Dr. Cooper, set up an appointment. 

He sat up straight and rubbed his hand over his face before taking a deep breath. He had to do something. Sherlock might not be the before Sherlock anymore, but he could still read John. Especially if John was upset about something. 

He got up and put on his dressing gown before he went out to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. 

“Everything alright, Dr. Watson?”

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me John,” John said, looking up at Brad.

Brad smiled. “Sorry, sir.” 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just can’t sleep after that nightmare.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“That’s okay. Want some tea?”

“Just made some.” 

“Join me?”

The two men sat and quietly talked for awhile before John went in the sitting room, pulled out a movie at random and put it in the blu-ray. 

By the time the movie was done, he got up and took a long, hot shower, trying to wash the memory of the past night from him somehow. When he went to get dressed, he checked on Sherlock. His fever was still there, up another half degree, and he was twitching and lowly moaning in his sleep. He sat down beside him and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair until he settled and seemed peaceful. 

He got dressed and went up to wake Rosie up. “Time to get up, honey,” he said as he gently shook her shoulder.

Rosie mumbled and turned over, opening her eyes just a bit. “Papa? Are you okay? I thought I heard someone yell last night. Is Sherlock still sick?”

“I’m fine. I had a bad dream last night. It woke me up. Sorry I woke you too. Sherlock’s still not feeling well. He’s still sleeping.” 

Rosie got up and got ready while John went down and started her breakfast. 

“You look awful, Papa,” she said as she ate her oatmeal.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Didn’t you get much sleep?”

“No. No, I didn’t.” 

“Why don’t you go lay down and sleep with Sherlock?”

“I had to get you ready for school,” he said as he sipped on his tea.

“Go as soon as I leave.” 

“I’ll lay down then. I promise.” 

After Rosie left, John checked on Sherlock, who was still sleeping. John felt exhausted, his eyes burning, his head aching. 

He took a paracetamol, went back into the sitting room, and called for Sam. 

“Yes, sir?”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m just going to lay down here on the sofa for awhile. Will you check on Sherlock? His temp went down last night during the night, but it’s back up this morning.”

“I will.” 

John laid down on the sofa and pulled a blanket up to his chin. The sofa smelled like Sherlock and that scent soothed him. He closed his eyes as the ache in his head started to go away. He tried to think of something to keep the dream at bay. Within a half hour, though, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep. 

When he woke, hours later, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, covered in a blanket, and looking at John curiously. “Are . . . you . . . o . . . kay?”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night. Thought I’d lay down for awhile. What time is it?” he asked, yawning. 

“Al . . . m . . . most . . . n . . . noon.” 

John sat up quickly. “I didn’t mean to sleep that long. Did you get your meds and breakfast?”

“Yes. S . . . Sam . . . g . . . got . . . m . . . me . . . up . . . I’ve . . . h . . . had . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . meds . . . and . . . br . . . break . . . f . . . fast.”

“How are you feeling?” John asked as he stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Ex . . . hausted . . . w . . . weak . . . h . . . hot . . . c . . . cold . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . nau . . . seated . . . h . . . head . . . ache. P . . . pretty . . . m . . . much . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . same. W . . . was . . . h . . . hoping . . . I’d . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . d . . . did . . . y . . . yester . . . day . . . m . . . morning.”

“Like I said, there’ll be good days and bad days.”

“And . . . d . . . days . . . th . . . that . . . are . . . b . . . both.” Sherlock reached up and took John’s hand, bringing it to his lips. 

John loved the caress of Sherlock’s mouth on his hand. But at the same time, he felt somehow unworthy of it, given the dream he’d had. But instead of reacting negatively, he smiled and turned his hand so his knuckles gently ran across one of Sherlock’s cheekbones.

“You’re so beautiful,” John said.

“Fl . . . flatt . . . erer,” Sherlock said, smiling. “S . . . silver . . . f . . . fox.” 

John laughed. “Enough flirting,” he said. “Time for lunch. I didn’t have anything but tea this morning. How about tomato soup and a bacon sarnie?”

“Mmmmm. H . . . haven’t . . . h . . . had . . . b . . . bacon . . . in . . . a . . . while.”

John used the time to concentrate on cooking so he wouldn’t think about the dream. He hoped that the physical therapist came soon after lunch. He’d call Dr. Cooper and talk to him while Sherlock had his session in the bedroom.

After lunch, the physical therapist did show up and took Sherlock into the bedroom and closed the door.

John pulled out his mobile and went to sit in Sherlock’s chair. He sent Sam out on an errand to pick up some more paracetamol. 

“Dr. Cooper’s office. How can I help you?” 

“This is Dr. John Watson. I was wondering if I could speak to Dr. Cooper?”

“You’re Sherlock Holmes’s caregiver?”

“That’s right.” 

“He’s just coming out of a session. I’ll put you through to his office. Just a moment.”

John waited for a few seconds then heard the sound of ringing on the other end. 

“John, how are you? Is Sherlock alright?”

“Still not up to snuff. He’s running a fever and is back to feeling weak and exhausted. He wasn’t what I was calling about, though.”

“Oh, what can I help you with?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Sure. I will be by this afternoon.”

“It’s something I don’t want Sherlock to hear.”

“Oh?”

John took a deep breath and told Dr. Cooper about his dream. By the time he finished, his voice was strained and his hands were shaking. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see the look of betrayal, hurt, and fear on Sherlock’s face. He was frightened of me. I can’t tell him about it. I wouldn’t do that to him. But it’s really, really shaken me up. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“It was a dream, John. You would never hurt him like that. I know you, and I know how much you love him.”

“But what does it mean? I’ll admit that I’ve mostly fantasized about Sherlock as he used to be, before the kidnapping. But . . .”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. John, I think that, within your subconscious, you’re worried, now that the two of you are actively exploring your sexuality together, that you’ll hurt him or trigger him. Not meaning to, of course, but perhaps Sherlock is right. Perhaps you’re so afraid of hurting him that you’re afraid to let yourself go. Perhaps you want to somehow keep complete control of the situation.”

“What can I do?”

“The two of you haven’t set out any rules yet?”

“No. Not really. Sherlock doesn’t want me to touch him below the waist. He insists that we can’t do anything beyond a certain point until after his last HIV test, as you know.”

“I think the two of you really need to have the talk. An honest talk. Looking at videos or illustrations could help a lot. You’ve both got to be completely sure of how far you want to go. You’re bisexual. Have you ever had penetrative sex with a man?”

“No. Hand jobs, oral sex, but nothing beyond that.”

“Then it’s going to be something new for you as well.”

“Those times before were just sex. This is different. I didn’t love any of the other men. I love Sherlock.”

“Then you’ve got to trust that you’re not going to hurt him.”

John sat thinking for a few moments. What Dr. Cooper said made a lot of sense. 

“John, you still there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking. I think you’re right. There’s so much to worry about when it comes to sex and Sherlock. I want to give him an experience, I guess, to try and make up for how cruelly his virginity was taken from him.” 

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself. You can’t make him forget what happened. But giving him good experiences to overwrite at least some of what happened is a great goal. Has the experimentation that you’ve tried so far been satisfactory for you?”

“I’d love to go farther, but yeah. It’s been great. Just being there with him, having his smell near me, his touch. And he hasn’t seemed to have had any negative reactions. Has he talked about it in your sessions?”

“You know that I can’t discuss that with you. Patient-client confidentiality.”

“Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have asked. Could you at least let me know if he’s had negative reactions?”

Dr. Cooper paused for a moment. “You haven’t hurt him, John. That he’s willing to be as open with you as he has been is very good progress. When we first started therapy, I had real doubts that Sherlock would let anyone touch him for any purpose other than for his physical well-being. That he’s been able to initiate sexual touching is a remarkable achievement.”

“I’m so proud of him. I know he hurts. I know he still has dreams. He doesn’t tell me about them, but I’ve woken up with him moaning and twitching in his sleep and I know that’s what he’s dreaming about. I just want what’s best for him. And, yes, I guess I am thinking about this selfishly. I’ve wanted him for so long. Wanted to feel him beneath me. Want to experience everything with him.”

“You’re in a committed relationship. It’s only natural that you want to take it to the next level. And you want it to be spontaneous. But in Sherlock’s case, there can only be a measure of spontaneity. Rules and boundaries have to be in place. And not just for him. You can’t go into this blindly either, John. As you can see from your dream, you may not always be consciously worrying about hurting or triggering him, but it’s still there, simmering in the background. You’ve got to let yourself off the hook right now. It’s something the two of you have got to work out together. And I’m not promising that everything will go perfectly well, either. There’ll be unseen and unconsidered things. Things you never considered. But it’s best to go into this with both eyes wide open.”

John felt himself calming down considerably. “Okay. I get what you’re saying, and I think you’re right. Thanks so much for speaking with me. I know you really didn’t need to. I’m not your patient after all.”

“I’m actually surprised that you haven’t asked to talk with me before. Your boyfriend has been through a series of events that would break most people. And on top of that, you’re his caregiver so you see exactly the toll this has taken on him. It’s very hard seeing someone you love in pain and struggling. I’m glad to help. But to be completely honest, you are my patient. When I signed the contract with Mycroft Holmes, there was a provision in it for me to treat you if you ever asked for it. Please let me know if you have any other concerns.”

“Wow. I can’t believe that Mycroft did that. Thanks again. See you later.”

“Goodbye, John.”

John ended the call. Somehow he felt lighter. Dr. Cooper had allayed his fears. And what he’d said had made sense. He wanted Sherlock more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life. And sometimes he wanted him so much that it scared him. It made sense that his deep-seated fear of hurting Sherlock somehow was working behind the scenes. 

He punched another number into his mobile. 

“Good afternoon, John. Is Sherlock alright?”

“He’s sick, unfortunately. He’s still not recovered. He’s weak, exhausted, feverish, nauseated, and his head hurts. And there’s nothing I can do to help him. He felt better yesterday for awhile. He was so relieved and so happy.”

“And his memory?”

“Still not back.”

“And there’s nothing to be done?”

“His system is in shock. But the fact that he felt better yesterday is a good sign.”

“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be by tonight to visit. Our parents really want to see him, and I think I’ve been able to arrange for our brother to join us.”

“That’ll make Sherlock very happy. He’s been a little down lately because of his health. He even thought that Rosie wouldn’t want him at her birthday party.”

“Oh, is her birthday soon?” Mycroft asked, a bit of a lilt to his voice.

“Like you don’t know.”

“Well, I may have made some . . . arrangements.” 

“What kind of arrangements? We were just going to have some of her friends over to have pizza and cake and then have you, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly over in the evening for dinner and more cake.”

“Not good enough for her eighth birthday.”

“Know a lot of eight-year-old girls do you?”

“I’ve had my people doing exhaustive research. Besides, I’m her uncle, and I’d like to have the chance to spoil Rosie every once and awhile.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“How many of her friends is she planning on inviting?”

“Seven.”

“Let’s just say there will be horses and prizes and a trip to the spa. I’ve engaged a gourmet to make their meal. And I’ve arranged for a tent for the evening along with a band and a huge birthday cake.”

John sat there with his mouth open. “Mycroft, that’s way, way too much. Rosie said she just wanted pizza and to watch movies.”

“Indulge me, John. I’ve never had a niece to plan a party for.”

“This couldn’t be a habit.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Okay. She’s going to be so excited.”

“I’m counting on it,” Mycroft said, somewhat smugly.

“I did call for a reason. I spoke to Dr. Cooper today. I had something that I needed to talk to someone about. He told me you asked him to talk to me if I ever needed it. Thank you, Mycroft.” 

“I’m hoping Dr. Cooper was helpful?”

“Yes. Very much. Thank you for considering that. I really appreciate it.”

“It can’t be easy seeing Sherlock in pain all the time. I assumed you’d eventually need to talk to someone. And you’re most welcome. You’re the most important person in the world to my little brother. I want the both of you to be happy. And the only way that’s going to happen is if you’re together. Anything I can do to ensure that is a small price to pay.”

“You’re a great big brother, Mycroft.”

“Please let Sherlock know that,” Mycroft said.

John laughed. “I will.”

“I hate to break off this conversation, but I have a meeting with the Prime Minister in few minutes.”

“Solving the government’s problems again?”

“More like giving a scolding where it’s needed.”

“I pity the Prime Minister.”

“Yes, quite,” Mycroft sniffed. “Goodbye John. See you later.”

“See you tonight.”

John felt even better after having talked to Mycroft. Rosie was going to be so incredibly happy. He really should have said no, but he’d had to spend so much time away from Rosie in the past few months, that he really, really wanted her to have a good birthday.

John stood up, throwing his mobile on the coffee table. He stopped to think about what he could get Rosie for her birthday. What could he get her that wouldn’t be eclipsed by the party? “Well, nothing obviously,” he said aloud. 

He went into the kitchen, made himself a cup of tea, and sat down at the table. He’d have to ask Rosie what she wanted. Maybe he and Sherlock could go in together on something. “Well,” he thought, blowing on his tea to cool it, “no sense getting worked up about it. The important thing is to give Rosie the best birthday ever.”

The physical therapist wheeled Sherlock into the kitchen before she left. Sherlock looked incredibly tired. 

“Want a cuppa?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded, looking down at his hands. 

“Feeling worse?” John asked as he placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“N . . . not . . . f . . . feeling . . . a . . . any . . . b . . . better.”

“Mmmm. You’re very warm. Have you got the chills?”

“A . . . all . . . o . . . over.”

John moved over to the sofa and grabbed the blanket from the back and wrapped it around Sherlock. He reached down and touched Sherlock’s hand. “Your hand is freezing.”

“I . . . kn . . . know.” 

“I don’t like this. Do you want me to put on a fire?”

“W . . . would . . . you?”

“Sure.” John made Sherlock’s tea before he went over to start the fire. He picked up Sherlock and put him down in his chair, turning it towards the growing fire. Sherlock had his hands clutched around his cup, trying to absorb as much heat as he could from the tea. John sat down opposite him. He picked up the book on forensic psychology to read it to Sherlock. He read a few paragraphs out loud. When he glanced up, Sherlock’s eyes were half-lidded. He’d set down the tea and was huddled in his blanket, shaking. The heat coming off of the fire was making John sweat, but Sherlock was shivering. 

“Oh, love,” he said as he laid the book down and stood up. He knelt down in front of Sherlock. There was sweat on his forehead. He reached out and touched his arm. His skin was cold and clammy. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

“B . . . but . . . D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . here . . . l . . . later.”

“I know. Maybe we can skip today. I’m going to give you some paracetamol for the fever. If your fever goes up anymore, we’re going to put you in a lukewarm bath to cool you off. You’ve got a heavy pair of pyjamas in the wardrobe. We’ll get you into those and a heavy pair of socks and an extra comforter. I’m going to make you a nice hot lemon drink. Once you drink it, we’ll cover you up and sweat this fever out. It’s something my mum used to do. And it worked.”

“W . . . what . . . e . . . ever . . . you . . . th . . . think . . . J . . . John.”

John lifted Sherlock up. Sherlock snuggled his head into John’s neck, desperate for the warmth. John called Sam and together they got Sherlock into his thick pyjamas and socks and into bed. Sam sat with him while John made the hot lemon drink. John helped him drink it and take the paracetamol and laid him down, covering him up with extra quilts. 

“Are you warm enough?”

“N . . . no,” Sherlock said, his teeth chattering. 

“Try and get to sleep, okay? Do you want another blanket?”

“Pl . . . please.”

John got another blanket out of the wardrobe and covered Sherlock with it. He pulled a chair from the corner and sat beside him, laying his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock reached out and touched John’s hand. John clasped Sherlock’s hand in his. 

“D . . . don’t . . . g . . . go. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . lone.”

“I’m not going anywhere, love.” With his other hand, John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s sweat-soaked hair. 

John’s hand gently stroking his head seemed to relax Sherlock. He weakly squeezed John’s hand and brought John’s hand to his lips.

“It’ll be okay, love. I’m here. I’m here.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Soon he was breathing deeply as he drifted off to sleep. John sat beside him watching him, not wanting to leave him. “Oh, love,” he whispered. “If I could just take this instead. I want you to get better and stay better. My poor Sherlock. I love you.” He bent down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

He got his mobile out of his pocket and dialed Dr. Cooper’s office, asking to speak with the doctor. 

“John, something wrong?”

“Sherlock’s quite sick. His fever is bad today, and he’s got the chills. I’ve just got him to sleep. I don’t think he’ll be up to a session this afternoon.”

“I understand. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

When he was sure that Sherlock was sound asleep, he asked Sam to sit with Sherlock while he made a light lunch. He returned as soon as he could and had brought back the book he’d bought to read. Occasionally, Sherlock would moan or twitch in his sleep. He’d take Sherlock’s temperature every now and then. The fever seemed to be holding at the same temperature. 

John sat with Sherlock until Rosie came home. He left Sam with Sherlock and shut the door. 

“Hi, Rosie. Did you have a good day at school?”

“Is Sherlock still sick?”

“His fever is back and quite high. I gave him my mum’s lemon drink. I hope it’ll help.” 

“I remember that. You’ve given it to me before when I was sick.”

“And you got well with it. I’ve got my fingers crossed that he’ll feel better when he wakes up and his fever will break.”

“It must be so hard for Sherlock. He hasn’t felt well for sooooo long. I feel sorry for him.” 

“Me too, honey. Me too,” John said as he hugged her.

“Do you want me to sit with Sherlock for awhile?”

“Sam’s in with him now. Let’s get you a snack and a start on your homework.”

John started dinner while Rosie did her homework, occasionally answering her questions. “Uncle Mycroft is coming by after dinner.”

“Oh, good. It’ll be nice to see him.”

The two of them ate a quiet dinner. John did the dishes while Rosie played with Gladstone and Aurora. Sam came out of the bedroom telling him that Sherlock was starting to wake up. 

John went into the bedroom and turned on the light on the table. 

“J . . . John?” a weak voice said.

“I’m here, love.” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s forehead. He was felt a bit warm. He took Sherlock’s temperature, and it was down over two degrees. “Your temp’s down. How do you feel?” 

“B . . . better. B . . . but . . . a . . . l . . . little . . . gr . . . gross. I . . . th . . . think . . . I’ve . . . sw . . . sweated . . . th . . . through . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . bl . . . blankets.”

John smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I knew that Mum’s cure would work.”

“C . . . can . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . b . . . bath? And . . . m . . . maybe . . . ch . . . change . . . th . . . the . . . sh . . . sheets?”

“Sure, love. I’ll get Sam to run you a bath. I’ll get you out another warm pair of pyjamas and socks.”

When Sherlock was in the bath, John stripped the bed and remade it. He went out and made some warm soup and some grilled cheese for Sherlock. When a nice and clean Sherlock was deposited back in bed, John brought his dinner in and sat with him while he ate it. 

Rosie came in and sat beside him with Aurora in her arms. “Feeling better?” she asked.

“M . . . much. St . . . still . . . w . . . weak . . . b . . . but . . . b . . . better.”

“I’m glad,” she said as she kissed his cheek. 

“S . . . so . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . R . . . Rosie. Wh . . . what . . . d . . . do . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . f . . . for . . . your . . . b . . . birth . . . d . . . day?”

She stopped to think. “I’m not sure.”

“If . . . you . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing . . . wh . . . what . . . w . . . would . . . it . . . b . . . be?”

“Something to play music, maybe? I know I can’t have an iPhone, but I do like a lot of music. Maybe an art kit? I like to draw. A laptop? But that would be too expensive. Some books. Anything really.”

They sat talking while Sherlock ate. John had to help him finish eating. They heard the lift engage, and Mycroft stepped into the room. 

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Uncle Mycroft!” Rosie said as she got up and gave him a hug.

“Yes . . . well . . . I’m glad to see you, Rosie,” he said as he, rather awkwardly, patted her on the shoulder.

“Br . . . brother . . . m . . . mine,” Sherlock said as he leaned back on his pillows.

“Still feeling unwell?” Mycroft asked.

“He had a bad fever this afternoon. It’s almost gone now.”

“Papa used my grandma’s hot lemon drink to make Sherlock feel better.”

“I . . . d . . . do . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . better.”

“That’s what’s most important. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Little Brother.” Mycroft pulled over another chair and sat beside the bed, resting his umbrella on the floor. “So, young lady, I understand you have a birthday coming up.”

“Yes, I do.” 

“Do you have any plans?”

“Papa said I could invite some of my friends over, and we’ll watch movies and dance a little in my room, and have pizza and cake.”

“Actually, I was thinking of something else. How would you like to have your party at my home? There’ll be horses. You can watch movies in my home theatre. There’ll be a trip to a spa. I’ve hired a band to play. And I’ve hired a chef to cater. Do you think that would be alright?”

Rosie squealed and threw herself onto Mycroft’s lap to hug him around the neck and kiss him on the cheek. She turned to John, “Oh, can I Papa? Can I?”

John smiled. “Mycroft and I discussed it this afternoon. It’s fine with me. I want you to have the best birthday ever.”

“This is amazing!!” Rosie said and hugged Mycroft again. 

A surprised and now-ruffled Mycroft responded by actually hugging Rosie back and, to John’s surprise, smiled. “I’m very happy that you’re looking forward to this.”

“I can’t wait!!” Rosie said, smiling widely. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Uncle Mycroft!!” 

“Rosie, you’re wrinkling a suit that no doubt costs as much as our rent for half a year,” John said. 

“Oh, really?” Rosie said, pulling back to look at the thoroughly wrinkled material. 

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said. 

Rosie sat back on the bed, still smiling. 

“V . . . very . . . k . . . kind . . . of . . . you . . . M . . . My,” Sherlock said, a smile on his face as well. 

“A little girl doesn’t turn eight every day,” Mycroft said as he straightened his suit coat. 

“I . . . indeed,” Sherlock agreed. 

John went out and made them tea, bringing a glass of chocolate milk in for Rosie. Through the evening, they sat talking about Rosie’s birthday until the time came for Rosie’s bath. John and Rosie left the brothers to visit and get Rosie into the tub. 

“Are you really feeling better, Sherlock?”

“N . . . not . . . m . . . much. Th . . . the . . . f . . . fever’s . . . a . . . almost . . . g . . . gone. I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . c . . . cold . . . e . . . earlier. I . . . h . . . hate . . . th . . . this. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . better. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . stop . . . b . . . being . . . a . . . b . . . burden . . . t . . . to . . . e . . . every . . . one. Es . . . especially . . . J . . . John.”

“You’re not a burden. And you will feel better someday.”

“G . . . good . . . G . . . God . . . I . . . am . . . s . . . sick . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . concept . . . of . . . s . . . some . . . day. M . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . become . . . a . . . s . . . series . . . of . . . it’ll . . . h . . . happen . . . s . . . some . . . days. J . . . John’s . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . lives . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . begin . . . u . . . until . . . a . . . after . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . h . . . happens. W . . . we . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . be . . . in . . . timate . . . u . . . until . . . t . . . the . . . HIV . . . t . . . test. W . . . we . . . c . . . can’t . . . g . . . get . . . m . . . married . . . u . . . until . . . h . . . he . . . t . . . tells . . . R . . . Rosie . . . a . . . about . . . h . . . her . . . m . . . mother. I . . . w . . . won’t . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . better . . . un . . . til . . . s . . . some . . . day. T . . . too . . . m . . . much . . . t . . . time . . . h . . . h . . . has . . . g . . . gone . . . b . . . by . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . I’m . . . n . . . never . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . sp . . . speak . . . w . . . without . . . th . . . this . . . d . . . damned . . . st . . . stutter. M . . . my . . . h . . . hands . . . aren’t . . . g . . . getting . . . a . . . any . . . b . . . better . . . in . . . th . . . therapy. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . t . . . tired . . . M . . . My. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . it . . . all. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . again. B . . . but . . . I’ve . . . l . . . lost . . . ev . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . was. I . . . w . . . wore . . . m . . . my . . . B . . . Bel . . . staff . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . other . . . d . . . day. And . . . it . . . m . . . made . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . cr . . . cry.” Sherlock sniffed. Tears were threading down his face. 

“You haven’t lost yourself, Brother Mine. You’ve become a new person.”

“A . . . l . . . lesser . . . p . . . person.”

“Never lesser. Just new . . . and different.” 

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . e . . . ever . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . myself . . . a . . . again.” He brought his hands up and covered his face, weeping.

Mycroft sat down beside him and gathered his brother into his arms. “You are always going to be yourself, Sherlock. Yes, you’ve changed. You have. I won’t deny that. But you’ve changed for the better, in some ways. Would you and John be together if this hadn’t happened? Would you be here at 221B together? I’m not saying that this has been in any way a good experience, but it’s had some unexpectedly good results. I wish I could do something, anything, to make you feel better. I’ve done all I can. I will do everything I can in the future to make sure no one ever hurts you again. I swear to you that you’re safe.” 

“I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . a . . . ch . . . chance . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . happy. J . . . just . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . while. I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . so . . . un . . . h . . . happy . . . f . . . for . . . s . . . so . . . l . . . long. F . . . for . . . m . . . most . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . l . . . life . . . w . . . with . . . J . . . John. I . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . him . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much. I . . . it’s . . . j . . . just . . . l . . . that . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . n . . . nothing . . . t . . . to . . . o . . . offer . . . h . . . him . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more. M . . . my . . . b . . . body . . . is . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . n . . . no . . . one . . . w . . . would . . . w . . . want. J . . . John . . . d . . . deserves . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . m . . . more. H . . . he . . . w . . . would . . . n . . . never . . . s . . . say . . . s . . . so . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so.”

“You’re more than your body, Sherlock. John loves all of you, not just your body. You still have your mind. Your heart. Your soul.”

“M . . . my . . . m . . . mind . . . is . . . n . . . nothing . . . l . . . like . . . it . . . w . . . was. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . r . . . remem . . . ber . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing.”

“It’ll get better. Your poor body has been through so much, Sherlock. Healing always takes time. And there can sometimes be complications. I know it’s aggravating to have to wait. To have to suffer. To live through day after day of feeling unwell. To think it’s never going to end. But you still have a lot of healing to get through before you’ll be well. And, dear Lord, you’ve got to eat more. I can feel your backbone and your ribs. 

“And most of all, you have trust in John’s feelings for you. He loves you. He’d do absolutely anything for you. And I know that you love him. You’ve loved him since you met him, though you’d have been loath to admit it before. The two of you against the world. Hasn’t that always been the case? John is the best thing in the whole world for you.”

“I . . . I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . w . . . would . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . sur . . . vived . . . th . . . this . . . w . . . without . . . h . . . him.” 

“It frightens me to admit it, but I know you’re right.”

Sherlock’s arms snaked around Mycroft’s waist as he pulled him tighter against him. “You . . . re . . . remember . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . u . . . used . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hug . . . m . . . me . . . and . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . it . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . o . . . okay . . . a . . . after . . . you . . . d . . . dried . . . m . . . my . . . t . . . tears?”

“When you were little? Yes, I remember. And I’ll always be here to do that for you. I do love you, Little Brother. More than anything else in this world.” Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. 

“I . . . l . . . love . . . you . . . t . . . too . . . M . . . My. And . . . I . . . a . . . apprec . . . iate . . . wh . . . what . . . you . . . d . . . do . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. I . . . d . . . do. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . seem . . . un . . . ungrateful. I . . . it . . . j . . . just . . . g . . . gets . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . some . . . t . . . times. And . . . J . . . John . . . h . . . has . . . s . . . seen . . . m . . . me . . . cr . . . cry . . . t . . . too . . . m . . . much.”

“I understand. I do. You don’t have to be afraid to be yourself with me. I know you can’t control your emotions like you could. And if you need me, I’m just a phone call away. But don’t be afraid to rely on John.”

Sherlock was glad that Mycroft said that. Even though he knew that it was because John had been drunk that he’d left Sherlock that night to sleep on the sofa because of Sherlock’s “waterworks,” he’d been thinking of it ever since it happened. And he’d been forcing tears away. 

Mycroft eased away from Sherlock and used his thumbs to wipe the tears from Sherlock’s face. To Sherlock’s surprise, Mycroft leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “You are so much stronger than you ever thought you were, Sherlock. Rely on that strength. Build on it. And don’t be afraid to rely on other people. Me, John, Mrs. Hudson, all of your friends and our family. We all love you and want to help you.”

“I . . . I . . . I . . . kn . . . know,” Sherlock said as he stared into his brother’s eyes. He even managed a small smile. 

“Rely on us when it’s all too much. When the pain gets to be too much. We’re here to help. We’re here to listen. We’re here to take some of the burden off of your shoulders.”

Sherlock’s eyes welled again. “I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . d . . . deserve . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . th . . . this. I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . such . . . a . . . m . . . mis . . . erable . . . b . . . bas . . . tard. Wh . . . why . . . d . . . do . . . you . . . a . . . all . . . c . . . care?”

Mycroft looked him in the eye. “Because we love you.”

Sherlock felt a lump grow in throat as the tears dripped down his cheeks again. He closed his eyes as he felt Mycroft move away for a moment before a gentle kiss was planted on his forehead.

“Don’t cry. You are so loved, Little Brother. You are so special to so many people.”

Sherlock reached up to wipe the tears away. 

“There’s something about you. You used to try your best to push people away, but it didn’t always work. People saw what was beneath that cold surface, and you drew them in. They care.”

“I . . . I’ll . . . tr . . . try . . . and . . . re . . . mem . . . ber . . . th . . . that.”

Mycroft straightened Sherlock’s sheets and dried his tears. “It’ll be okay,” Mycroft smiled as he said it.

“Th . . . thank . . . you . . . M . . . My.”

Mycroft returned to his chair. “I have something to tell you. Mummy and Daddy want to visit again.” 

Sherlock moaned. “I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

“I know you don’t. But it’s been a long time since they saw you. Not since the stabbing. You almost died Sherlock, and you didn’t want them to see you in the hospital again.”

“It . . . j . . . just . . . up . . . sets . . . M . . . Mummy.” 

“Of course, it upsets Mummy to see you hurt. She loves you. But it’s not just them. I’ve managed to come up with an excuse so that Ford can come see you too.”

“F . . . Ford?” Sherlock said, smiling. 

“He’s most anxious to see you. So, do you think it’ll be alright to bring them?”

“Wh . . . when?”

“This weekend? Saturday night?”

“A . . . alright.” 

“Wonderful. I’ll make the arrangements.”

John and Rosie came back in the bedroom. “Rosie just wanted to say good night.” 

“M . . . my . . . p . . . parents . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . little . . . br . . . brother . . . are . . . c . . . coming . . . t . . . to . . . v . . . visit . . . on . . . S . . . Sat . . . urday.”

“You have another brother?” Rosie asked. 

“Yes. H . . . he . . . w . . . works . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . g . . . govern . . . ment . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . lot . . . of . . . f . . . free . . . t . . . time. H . . . his . . . n . . . name . . . is . . . Sh . . . Sherring . . . f . . . ford. B . . . but . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . call . . . h . . . him . . . F . . . Ford.”

“Wow! I have another uncle.” 

“Indeed. I think you’ll like Ford,” Mycroft said.

“I can’t wait to meet him. Good night, Uncle Mycroft. Good night, Uncle Sherlock,” she said. 

“S . . . see . . . you . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . morning,” Sherlock said as he smiled at her. 

“See you on Saturday, Rosie,” Mycroft said.

John took Rosie up to bed. When he returned, Mycroft was gathering his things. 

“I don’t want to wear you out, Sherlock. Not when you’re just starting to feel better.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Th . . . thank . . . you . . . f . . . for . . . c . . . coming . . . M . . . My. I . . . r . . . really . . . appre . . . ciated . . . wh . . . what . . . you . . . s . . . said.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you this weekend. Good night Sherlock. Good night John.”

“Good night, Mycroft,” John said. 

As Mycroft got in the lift, John sat down beside Sherlock. “You and your brother have a good talk?”

“It . . . w . . . was . . . ill . . . umina . . . ting. M . . . my . . . br . . . brother . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . loves . . . m . . . me. H . . . he . . . w . . . wiped . . . m . . . my . . . t . . . tears . . . and . . . t . . . told . . . m . . . me . . . ev . . . erything . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . al . . . right.”

“Of course, he loves you. We all love you, Sherlock. I’m glad to hear that your parents are going to visit. You should let them visit more often. I know they get upset, but you’re their son and they love you.” 

“I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mother . . . cr . . . cry. I’ve . . . m . . . made . . . h . . . her . . . cr . . . cry . . . t . . . too . . . m . . . many . . . t . . . times . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life.”

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand. “I . . . I never realized . . .”

“You . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . b . . . being . . . an . . . a . . . arse . . . wh . . . who . . . d . . . didn’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents. I . . . l . . . love . . . th . . . them. Th . . . they’re . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents.”

“I know you do, love. I understand now. I’m sorry. I just assumed . . .”

“W . . . well . . . d . . . don’t . . . n . . . next . . . t . . . time,” Sherlock answered a bit curtly.

“Don’t be angry. Please forgive me. Of course, you love your parents. I’m sorry that I implied that you didn’t.” 

“I . . . sh . . . shouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . sn . . . snapped. I’m . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . one . . . wh . . . who’s . . . s . . . sorry. I’ve . . . w . . . wanted . . . a . . . all . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . pr . . . proud . . . of . . . m . . . me. Th . . . they . . . w . . . were . . . s . . . so . . . pr . . . proud . . . of . . . M . . . My. He . . . a . . . accomplished . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . s . . . so . . . e . . . early. A . . . and . . . th . . . they . . . d . . . doted . . . on . . . F . . . Ford. I . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . middle . . . ch . . . child . . . a . . . and . . . I . . . w . . . wanted . . . and . . . n . . . needed . . . th . . . their . . . l . . . love . . . and . . . att . . . ention. I . . . tr . . . tried . . . b . . . by . . . b . . . being . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . curious . . . one . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . g . . . got . . . in . . . tr . . . trouble. And . . . it . . . s . . . seems . . . e . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . I . . . d . . . do . . . dis . . . appoints . . . th . . . them.”

“They love you, Sherlock. They worry about you.”

“Of . . . c . . . course . . . th . . . they . . . d . . . do. I . . . g . . . got . . . m . . . my . . . d . . . degree . . . b . . . but . . . d . . . didn’t . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . more . . . sch . . . ooling. Th . . . then . . . th . . . there . . . w . . . was . . . th . . . the . . . dr . . . drug . . . pr . . . problem. Th . . . they . . . w . . . were . . . m . . . mor . . . tified . . . I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . their . . . s . . . son . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . dr . . . drug . . . a . . . addict. And . . . n . . . now . . . all . . . th . . . this. Th . . . their . . . s . . . son . . . a . . . br . . . brain . . . d . . . damaged . . . p . . . par . . . alyzed . . . b . . . bur . . . d . . . den.”

“You aren’t a burden.”

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . e . . . ever . . . m . . . make . . . th . . . them . . . pr . . . proud . . . n . . . now. I’m . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . son . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . they . . . p . . . pity.”

“They’re proud of you. You’ve survived so much that would have broken most people.”

“M . . . mostly . . . a . . . all . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . fault. P . . . people . . . h . . . hate . . . m . . . me.”

“People don’t hate you. The only ones who do are ones you put in jail.”

“O . . . or . . . w . . . women . . . wh . . . who . . . h . . . hate . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . l . . . love . . . th . . . their . . . h . . . husband.”

John’s face sobered. He reached out to Sherlock. “I . . .”

“It’s . . . n . . . not . . . your . . . f . . . fault. N . . . never . . . your . . . f . . . fault. B . . . but . . . I . . . br . . . brought . . . it . . . on . . . m . . . myself.”

“No one deserved what happened to you. No one. She’s fucking evil.”

“Sh . . . she . . . t . . . took . . . e . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . fr . . . from . . . m . . . me.” Sherlock reached out and touched John’s hand. “B . . . but . . . sh . . . she . . . g . . . gave . . . m . . . me . . . you. S . . . so . . . I . . . gu . . . guess . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . e . . . end . . . sh . . . she . . . l . . . lost.”

John was so touched. He pulled Sherlock into his arms. “And gave me you. You’re all I’ve ever really wanted. And your parents are proud of you.”

“N . . . no. Th . . . they’ve . . . n . . . nothing . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . pr . . . proud . . . of. I . . . n . . . never . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . s . . . such . . . a . . . d . . . dis . . . appoint . . . m . . . ment . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . them.”

“You’re their son. They could never be disappointed in you.” 

“It’s . . . a . . . an . . . acc . . . ident . . . of . . . b . . . birth . . . th . . . that . . . I’m . . . th . . . their . . . s . . . son. Th . . . they . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . lots . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . pr . . . proud . . . of . . . w . . . with . . . M . . . My. He . . . r . . . runs . . . th . . . the . . . g . . . gov . . . ern . . . m . . . ment. And . . . F . . . Ford . . . w . . . works . . . f . . . for . . . MI . . . s . . . 6. He . . . s . . . saves . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . world. I’m . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . f . . . failed . . . d . . . det . . . ec . . . tive . . . w . . . who . . . p . . . pissed . . . off . . . th . . . the . . . wr . . . wrong . . . p . . . people.”

“You helped a lot of people. You saved a lot of lives. You put a lot of criminals in jail, where they belong. You, almost singlehandedly, shut down a vast criminal network. You’ve protected all of us by putting yourself in danger time and again. And you’re so brave. So strong.”

“I . . . h . . . hate . . . b . . . being . . . str . . . strong. I’m . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . it.”

“I know. You don’t have to be strong with me. You know that. I’m here for you to take whatever pain I can away from you.”

Sherlock’s mind flashed back to “Here come the fucking waterworks.” He wanted to hide his sadness from John. He didn’t want to be any more of a burden to him that he had to be. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Wh . . . what?”

“You know that. Don’t you?”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock replied. 

John pulled back from Sherlock. Sherlock’s head was down. He was staring at his hands.

“Sherlock? Answer me.”

“Yes . . . J . . . John,” he whispered in a very small voice.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you know that? Don’t you know that I’d do anything for you?”

“D . . . don’t . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . say . . . it . . . J . . . John.”

“Say what?”

“Wh . . . when . . . you . . . w . . . were . . . dr . . . drunk. I . . . st . . . started . . . t . . . to . . . cr . . . cry . . . and . . . you . . . s . . . said . . . H . . . here . . . c . . . come . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . fucking . . . w . . . water . . . w . . . works. Th . . . then . . . you . . . w . . . went . . . t . . . to . . . sl . . . sleep . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sofa. You . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . deal . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . my . . . e . . . emotions. And . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . any . . . c . . . control . . . o . . . over . . . th . . . them.”

John sat back, stunned at what Sherlock had said. “Have you been keeping your emotions under wraps because of that?”

Sherlock nodded his head slowly.

“Sherlock, I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying. I can’t even remember saying it. I didn’t mean it. Really I didn’t.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . more . . . of . . . a . . . b . . . burden . . . th . . . then . . . I . . . al . . . ready . . . am. You . . . d . . . don’t . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . deal . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . my . . . c . . . con . . . stant . . . t . . . tears.”

“I want to help you. I know that you’re sad sometimes, and you can’t help it. The old you would never let me know he was upset. But I’m glad you do. I really am.”

“B . . . but . . . you . . . s . . . said . . .” Sherlock looked up at John, a look of confusion on his face.

“Oh, love,” John said, his voice thick with emotion. “Please forgive me. Please don’t stop being who you are because of something I said when I was drunk.” He gently touched Sherlock’s face and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I never meant to hurt you. I’ve been doing that for so long. I love you, Sherlock. I want you to open up to me, whenever you want to. I want you to feel safe doing that.”

“D . . . do . . . you . . . m . . . mean . . . it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes downcast.

“Of course, I mean it.” John squeezed Sherlock to him. “I’m yours. You’re mine. Your troubles are mine. The happiness is ours and so is the sadness and the pain and the anger. They’re both of ours.”

Sherlock nodded. This was his John. The John he desperately loved. 

“Then that’s settled?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Please promise me something.”

“A . . . anything.” 

“Promise me that you’ll talk to your parents.”

“Th . . . they . . . w . . . won’t . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . the . . . tr . . . truth. Th . . . they . . . w . . . won’t . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . they’re . . . a . . . ashamed . . . of . . . m . . . me.”

“Because they aren’t. Please just talk to them. Clear the air between you. Let them know that why it upsets you to see them.”

“Al . . . alright. If . . . you . . . th . . . think . . . it’s . . . b . . . best.”

“How are you feeling?”

“L . . . little . . . c . . . cold. T . . . tired. A . . . achy. C . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . bed?”

“Sure. You need the loo?”

Sherlock nodded. John helped him to the loo and helped him brush his teeth before depositing him back in bed. 

“You’re right. It is a bit cool in here.” John turned the heat up a bit when he went out to get Sherlock’s meds. He got Sherlock tucked in before he headed to the loo himself. It had been an upsetting day, and John was exhausted. It was early, but he had to get up early to get Rosie off to school. He definitely could use the extra sleep. Guilt pricked at him, though. Sherlock holding back his emotions because of what John had said really upset him. He didn’t want to be a horse’s arse, but he had been. And he had hurt Sherlock yet again. He knew that no relationship was perfect, and there would always be things that hurt the other. He was feeling particularly and fiercely protective of Sherlock and didn’t want anyone to ever hurt him again, especially not himself. 

He washed his hands and brushed his teeth before turning off the light and heading back into the bedroom. He closed the door and quickly stripped out of his clothes, putting on his pyjama trousers and a thick, warm T-shirt. He pulled the covers back and slipped in beside Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were half closed, and he was snuggled into his pillow. 

“Good night, love,” John said as he leaned over to kiss Sherlock.

“’N . . . night . . . J . . . John.” Sherlock moved over slightly and laid his head on John’s shoulder. John reached over and turned the light off and settled in, pulling the covers up over both of them. As he laid there, John waited until Sherlock was breathing deeply beside him before he relaxed and let himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty more to come. Sorry for the wait between chapters.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a day out that echoes the old days. At a family gathering, Sherlock finds out something he always believed to be true isn't in fact true. It tips his world upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the tags.

After several days of feeling miserable, Sherlock woke up feeling better. For once, he didn’t ache, he wasn’t too hot or too cold, and the nausea had faded. His head didn’t hurt. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, thankfully free of nightmares, and the exhaustion wasn’t overwhelming, just sitting in the background.

“J . . . John!” he called. 

“What is it?” John asked, running in from the kitchen. His hands were wet from doing the dishes, and he was dripping soapy water onto the floor. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock smiled. “N . . . nothing . . . b . . . bad. I . . . f . . . feel . . . g . . . good. R . . . really . . . g . . . good. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . f . . . fun.”

John smiled back. “That’s great, love. What do you want to do?”

“L . . . let’s . . . g . . . go . . . o . . . out . . . f . . . for . . . b . . . break . . . f . . . fast. M . . . maybe . . . th . . . that . . . p . . . place . . . wh . . . where . . . w . . . we . . . st . . . stopped . . . f . . . for . . . tea . . . and . . . d . . . dough . . . nuts? And . . . th . . . then . . . t . . . to . . . B . . . Bart’s.”

“Why do you want to visit Bart’s?”

“T . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . if . . . M . . . Molly . . . h . . . has . . . a . . . any . . . in . . . ter . . . esting . . . c . . . cases.”

“Think you’re up to it?”

“Al . . . ways. Th . . . then . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . can . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . A . . . Angelo’s . . . f . . . for . . . l . . . lunch. And . . . g . . . go . . . sh . . . shopping . . . f . . . for . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . pr . . . present. And . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . back . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . session . . . w . . . with . . . D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper.”

“That sounds really ambitious. Are you sure?”

“W . . . we . . . c . . . can . . . al . . . ways . . . c . . . come . . . b . . . back . . . if . . . I . . . st . . . start . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . un . . . well. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . take . . . you . . . out . . . and . . . sh . . . show . . . you . . . off. M . . . my . . . s . . . silver . . . f . . . fox.” Sherlock smiled widely and winked at John.

John laughed. “Okay. But if I think you’re getting too tired, we’re coming home.” 

“I . . . w . . . won’t.” 

“I’ll call about getting the van.”

Sherlock looked so excited, so young, so innocent that John couldn’t help but want to go. 

When Sam took him into the loo to take a bath, John called Anthea to arrange for the van to be brought to 221B. Since they only used it when they went outside the neighbourhood, Mycroft had arranged for it to be parked in a government-controlled parking area. Anthea told him that the van would be there within twenty minutes. 

John had only dressed for a day at home. He went into the bedroom and put on a pair of jeans and a shirt. It was nice to think that they could go out for a long outing. Do things that they used to do. Get back to some sense of normalcy. 

He heard the hair dryer going in the loo. He rummaged through the wardrobe and got out one of Sherlock’s most outrageously expensive pair of trousers. And his purple shirt. And a suit coat. 

When Sam brought Sherlock in, he was only dressed in his pants. His eye twinkled when he saw the outfit that John had gotten out for him. Sam and John dressed him. Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror. “I . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . lost . . . a . . . l . . . lot . . . of . . . w . . . weight,” he said when he saw how the purple shirt that normally strained at the buttons when he moved hung loose on him. 

“Well, we’re going to have doughnuts for breakfast and no doubt a lot of pasta for lunch. That should help,” John said as he bent over and touched the end of Sherlock’s nose before he kissed his nose. 

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “N . . . no . . . d . . . diet . . . f . . . for . . . you . . . t . . . today.”

Together Sam and John got Sherlock into his Belstaff and scarf. John pulled on his jacket. He looked at Sherlock, who looked back at him. A small smile played across Sherlock’s lips. Soon, they both had silly smiles on their faces and were literally vibrating with excitement. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t exactly like the old days, but they were going to Bart’s to look at bodies. It was as close to “the Work” as they’d had since Sherlock was kidnapped. Sherlock, with a twinkle in his eye, smiled wider and said, “C . . . come . . . J . . . John. Th . . . the . . . g . . . game . . . is . . . on.” 

John laughed and began to push Sherlock toward the lift. 

When they got downstairs, Mrs. Hudson was just coming out of her flat. “Off for a little trip, boys?”

“B . . . big . . . pl . . . plans. G . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . br . . . break . . . f . . . fast . . . and . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . morgue.”

“The morgue? Why would you want to go there?” she said, shivering in distaste.

“Wh . . . where . . . e . . . else . . . w . . . would . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . on . . . a . . . d . . . day . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . f . . . feel . . . r . . . really . . . g . . . good?” Sherlock asked. 

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that you’re feeling better,” Mrs. Hudson said as she bent and kissed his cheek. “Oh, and you’re wearing your coat. I’ve missed it.”

“I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . too.” 

“He’s even wearing the purple shirt.” 

“Oh really? The one that was so tight? I often wondered why you wore it.”

“To look sexy,” John said, smiling. 

“You . . . al . . . ways . . . st . . . stood . . . at . . . l . . . least . . . a . . . th . . . third . . . of . . . a . . . m . . . metre . . . cl . . . closer . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . when . . . e . . . ever . . . I . . . w . . . wore . . . it.”

“Really?” John asked. 

“Ab . . . solutely. You . . . a . . . also . . . w . . . would . . . l . . . look . . . at . . . m . . . me . . . o . . . out . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . corner . . . of . . . your . . . eye . . . wh . . . when . . . you . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . l . . . looking. Es . . . pecially . . . if . . . I . . . w . . . wore . . . th . . . those . . . t . . . tight . . . bl . . . black . . . tr . . . trousers . . . w . . . with . . . it. And . . . if . . . I . . . c . . . caught . . . you . . . l . . . looking . . . you’d . . . t . . . turn . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . loveliest . . . sh . . . shade . . . of . . . p . . . pink. And . . . you’d . . . b . . . be . . . sh . . . short . . . t . . . tempered . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . rest . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . d . . . day.” Sherlock looked up at John, who was blushing clear down to his toes. “Yes . . . ex . . . exact . . . ly . . . th . . . that . . . sh . . . shade . . . of . . . p . . . pink.”

Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth as she giggled like a young girl. “Oh, Sherlock. You’ve embarrassed John so. How wicked.”

Sherlock turned to John, a look of complete innocence on his face. 

John was still blushing, but a smile played across his lips. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck. “I . . . um . . . I . . . guess I never realized that you noticed.”

“Of . . . c . . . course . . . I . . . n . . . noticed. I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . d . . . det . . . ec . . . tive . . . you . . . kn . . . know,” Sherlock said with a smile.

John laughed. “You’ve always been able to deduce me. Just like everyone else, I suppose.”

“Oh . . . m . . . most . . . es . . . pecially . . . you,” Sherlock said as he reached out and took John’s hand, bringing it to his lips and giving it a brief peck. 

“Oh, you two,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling. “It does my old heart good to see the two of you together like this. I’m so happy that you finally acknowledged how you feel about each other.”

“But you, of course, knew all along,” John said.

“Maybe I have a bit of detective in me too,” she said as she headed back into her flat. “Have a good time, boys.”

“Shall we go?” John asked.

“As . . . your . . . b . . . beloved . . . T . . . Ten . . . is . . . f . . . fond . . . of . . . s . . . saying . . . A . . . allons-y.”

The van was waiting in front of 221B. John rolled Sherlock in and secured him before getting in himself. When they reached the restaurant, Sherlock ordered a large plate of doughnuts and tea. They talked and ate and laughed for over an hour before they made their way to Bart’s.

When they walked into the morgue, Molly was in the middle of an autopsy. “John, Sherlock. I’m so glad to see you.” She stripped off her latex gloves and came over to hug both of them. 

“How are you, Molly? Married life treating you well?”

“Very well. Greg and I are so happy. We wished we could have had a longer honeymoon, but Greg couldn’t get more time off.”

“W . . . would . . . you . . . m . . . mind . . . if . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . watched . . . th . . . the . . . aut . . . opsy? I . . . f . . . feel . . . w . . . well . . . t . . . today. I . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . old . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . have . . . d . . . done. Is . . . th . . . this . . . a . . . tr . . . tricky . . . one?”

“I’d be glad to have the two of you here. This one’s pretty cut and dried. A sixty-four-year-old man with a past history of heart disease. Had a heart attack while jogging. I was just wrapping this one up, though. I’ve got another one that the Met brought in. Possibly a nice, juicy murder.”

A big smile spread across Sherlock’s face. He clapped his hands together. “D . . . did . . . you . . . h . . . hear . . . th . . . that . . . J . . . John? A . . . m . . . murder.”

John smiled too. “It’s a good thing we came today.”

“Let me finish this one up. I shouldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Do you want to go up to the cafeteria for some tea?”

“J . . . just . . . c . . . came . . . fr . . . from . . . br . . . break . . . f . . . fast. P . . . perhaps . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . loo . . . J . . . John?”

“Sure. We’ll be back.”

When they returned, Molly’s assistants were just bringing the other body in. They put the body on the table and left. 

“The victim is Charlotte Essex. She was thirty-six. Lived in Croydon. An accountant by trade. Found in her flat by her sister, who was her roommate. There was no visible wound. No known health problems that would have killed her. Yet, here she is.”

“P . . . poison?” 

“Possibly. Her sister had been away for a week. When she’d left, Charlotte was fine. They had texted several times, and Charlotte had complained of the stomach flu. She hadn’t been to work, and no one had seen her outside her flat for days.”

“W . . . well. L . . . let’s . . . b . . . begin.”

Molly began the autopsy. As she worked, she dictated into the recorder above the table and answered Sherlock’s questions. By the time, she’d finished examining the body, it was early afternoon. She cleaned up the body and took off her latex gloves. “So, we have the following: evidence of cardiac arrest though there is no history of heart disease and she was in good health; kidney failure though no renal disease indicated; inflammation of the pancreas; and intracranial bleeding.”

Sherlock sat thinking. “St . . . stomach . . . c . . . contents?”

“Nothing there. If she’d had the stomach flu for days, she probably wasn’t eating.” 

“N . . . nothing . . . l . . . left . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . in . . . testines?”

“Traces. I’ve sent them off to be tested. It’ll be Monday before we have the results along with the blood toxicology.”

“What do you think, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Ch . . . check . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . rubbish . . . b . . . bins. Sh . . . she’s . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . sick . . . s . . . so . . . sh . . . she’s . . . n . . . not . . . a . . . apt . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . em . . . emptied . . . th . . . them.”

“And you’re expecting?” Molly asked.

“M . . . mush . . . r . . . rooms. D . . . death . . . c . . . cap . . . m . . . mush . . . r . . . rooms. Th . . . the . . . s . . . symp . . . toms . . . f . . . fit . . . p . . . per . . . fectly. B . . . but . . . I . . . b . . . believe . . . you . . . al . . . ready . . . s . . . sus . . . pected . . . th . . . that. D . . . didn’t . . . you . . . M . . . Molly?”

Molly’s face reddened a little. “I suspected. But it’s great that you thought of it.” 

“Yes, Sherlock. Just like you used to. Deducing in seconds,” John said.

“M . . . maybe . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind . . . isn’t . . . c . . . completely . . . g . . . gone,” Sherlock said, a pleased look on his face. 

“It isn’t, love. You’re doing well.” John couldn’t help but think that the old Sherlock would have solved this case in mere minutes and be asking Molly for a difficult case. He felt a twinge of regret about it. But instead of feeling bad, he smiled widely and said, “Brilliant!”

“C . . . can’t . . . s . . . say . . . if . . . it’s . . . m . . . murder . . . f . . . for . . . s . . . sure. B . . . but . . . it’s . . . l . . . likely. If . . . sh . . . she . . . l . . . lived . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . country . . . m . . . maybe . . . it . . . c . . . could . . . b . . .be . . . an . . . acc . . . ident. B . . . but . . . wh . . . what . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . made . . . s . . . some . . . one . . . ang . . . ry . . . e . . . enough . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . murdered . . . an . . . acc . . . ountant?”

“The Met will be digging into that I’m sure,” Molly said.

“Wh . . . who’s . . . g . . . got . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . case?”

“Dimmock.”

Sherlock nodded. “H . . . he’s . . . n . . . not . . . as . . . use . . . l . . . less . . . as . . . m . . . most . . . of . . . th . . . them. H . . . he . . . m . . . may . . . s . . . solve . . . it.”

“You will let us know how the investigation goes?” John asked.

“I’ll ask Greg to keep you informed,” Molly said, smiling. 

“P . . . perfect. I’ve . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . w . . . wonder . . . f . . . ful . . . m . . . morning,” Sherlock said, smiling. 

“We’re off to lunch at Angelo’s. Would you like to come too, Molly?”

“I’d love to. But Greg and I are going to lunch in a half hour or so.”

“Th . . . thank . . . you . . . M . . . Molly. Th . . . this . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . been . . . gr . . . great. I . . . r . . . really . . . app . . . reciate . . . it.”

Molly came over and knelt down to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “Any time. Come back any time. I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”

John and Sherlock left Bart’s and went to Angelo’s. Angelo made a fuss over Sherlock and was extremely happy that Sherlock was feeling well. They each ate far more than they probably should have. By the time they finished, they realized they didn’t have time to go shopping. When they returned home, both were sleepy but entirely contented. 

John and Sam helped Sherlock get out of his Belstaff. “Do you want to change into more comfortable clothes?”

“N . . . no. I . . . l . . . like . . . w . . . wearing . . . th . . . this. It . . . m . . . makes . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . old . . . m . . . me. At . . . l . . . least . . . as . . . m . . . much . . . as . . . I . . . rem . . . ember.” Sherlock smiled at John. “And . . . you . . . c . . . certainly . . . s . . . seem . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . like . . . it.”

“Yes. I do like it. I admit it,” John said as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. He bent over to look Sherlock in the eyes. “And you look incredibly sexy, by the way.” He leaned forward and kissed him soundly on the lips. 

“S . . . so . . . d . . . do . . . you . . . m . . . my . . . s . . . silver . . . f . . . fox.”

John smiled. ‘I’m only wearing jeans and a shirt. Nothing special.”

“B . . . but . . . you . . . l . . . look . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good . . . in . . . th . . . them.”

“Flatterer.” 

“C . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . l . . . lay . . . d . . . down . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sofa . . . t . . . to . . . gether?”

“Feeling tired?”

“N . . . no. J . . . just . . . in . . . incredibly . . . f . . . full.”

“Me too. I really shouldn’t have eaten so much.”

“It’s . . . m . . . made . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . sleepy.”

“Me too.” 

John groaned as he picked up Sherlock and laid him down on the sofa. Sherlock slid over to give him room and John laid down beside him. Sherlock put his head on John’s chest as John wrapped his arms around him. 

“I . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . so . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . today . . . J . . . John. It’s . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . w . . . wonder . . . f . . . ful . . . d . . . day.”

“I’m so glad that you’ve enjoyed it.”

“W . . . we’ll . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . m . . . more . . . d . . . days . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

“Once you’re better, we’ll be able to do so much. We can take on cases if we want. Maybe go back and work with Greg. Whatever you want.”

“W . . . we . . . c . . . could . . . d . . . do . . . it . . . p . . . part . . . t . . . time. O . . . once . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . baby . . . c . . . comes . . . and . . . w . . . with . . . s . . . school . . . h . . . holidays . . . w . . . we’ll . . . o . . . only . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . w . . . work . . . at . . . h . . . home. Es . . . pecially . . . if . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . an . . . other . . . b . . . baby.”

“All that will take care of itself. We can get someone in to look after the kids sometimes if we need to go out for a case.”

“I . . . s . . . suppose.” Sherlock yawned until his jaw cracked. “I’m . . . s . . . sleepy.”

“Me too.” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead and closed his eyes. Sherlock closed his as well, and they were both soon asleep. When Dr. Cooper arrived, Sam went downstairs to let him in and then had to shake Sherlock awake. 

John woke up as soon as Sherlock started to move in his arms. “Whaa?” he said as he woke at the end of a snore. 

“D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper . . . is . . . h . . . here,” Sherlock said as he rubbed his eyes and yawned.

John looked up. Dr. Cooper was standing by the lift. “Sorry, Doctor. We both ate a huge lunch and were tired when we got home. Didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

“Perfectly alright. Are you feeling better today, Sherlock?”

Sherlock smiled. “Gr . . . great. W . . . we . . . w . . . went . . . out . . . a . . . all . . . m . . . morning . . . and . . . h . . . had . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . best . . . t . . .time.”

“What did you do?”

“W . . . we . . . g . . . got . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . morgue. L . . . looks . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . case . . . m . . . may . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . m . . . murder. Qu . . . quite . . . ex . . . citing.”

Dr. Cooper smiled. “Sounds very interesting.”

“Let’s get you ready for your session,” John said as he lifted Sherlock into his wheelchair. 

Dr. Cooper wheeled Sherlock into the bedroom.

John yawned and stretched. He eyed the sofa and seriously contemplated laying back down but instead put on his coat and took a walk. He had to do something to wear off the huge amount of food he’d eaten.

He returned almost an hour later. He felt less full and more energetic. When Sherlock came out of his session, John was just putting the kettle on to boil. Dr. Cooper exchanged a few pleasantries and then left. 

“How was your session, love?”

“F . . . fine. A . . . about . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . same. I . . . th . . . think . . . w . . . we . . . sh . . . should . . . w . . . work . . . on . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing.”

“What’s that?”

“D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper . . . s . . . suggest . . . ed . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . t . . . talk . . . a . . . about . . . s . . . setting . . . b . . . boundaries. F . . . for . . . wh . . . when . . . w . . . we . . . m . . . make . . . l . . . love . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . first . . . t . . . time.”

“Yes. He mentioned it to me too,” John said as he set Sherlock’s cup of tea in front of him. “I bought a book for us to go through.”

“W . . . we . . . c . . . can . . . a . . . also . . . l . . . look . . . at . . . v . . . videos . . . on . . . l . . . line. I . . . th . . . think . . . w . . . we . . . sh . . . should . . . st . . . start . . . n . . . now.”

John sat down and blew on his tea. “Makes sense. Set out the ground rules before we go to much farther.”

“I . . . kn . . . know . . . th . . . that . . . it . . . t . . . takes . . . all . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . sp . . . on . . . tan . . . eity . . . out . . . of . . . it. I . . . kn . . . know . . . it . . . r . . . ruins . . . th . . . things. I’m . . . s . . . sorry.”

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’ve told you that before. You’ve never made love before. I’ve never had anal sex before. I would have wanted to talk about this before anyway.”

Sherlock nodded his head, sipping at his tea. He looked into John’s eyes for a long time. “Um . . . s . . . so . . . wh . . . where . . . sh . . . should . . . w . . . we . . . st . . . start?”

John saw a red tinge rise in Sherlock’s face. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand again. “It’s okay. I know it can be embarrassing. But it’s us. We love each other. This is part of what being in love means. There’s going to be things you like and things I like. When we go through the book and videos, we can pick out things we’d like to try and things we don’t want to try. There’ll be things we’ll want to change. No couple goes into a sexual relationship knowing exactly what the other person wants or likes. It’s always a negotiation.”

“B . . . but . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . reality . . . is . . . th . . . that . . . ours . . . is . . . a . . . sp . . . special . . . c . . . case. Th . . . there . . . are . . . th . . . things . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . I’ll . . . e . . . ever . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do. A . . . and . . . I . . . st . . . still . . . c . . . can’t . . . h . . . help . . . th . . . thinking . . . th . . . that . . . it’s . . . n . . . not . . . f . . . fair . . . t . . . to . . . you.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand again. “I don’t want you thinking that way. I love you, Sherlock. I never thought we’d be together. I’m incredibly happy that we are. And, when the time comes for us to make love, I’ll be happy with whatever you’re prepared to give me.”

“D . . . damnit!” Sherlock said loudly. “If . . . it . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . them . . . w . . . we . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . th . . . this . . . con . . . ver . . . sa . . . tion. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . s . . . sorry . . . J . . . John.” Tears began to slowly move down his face.

“It wasn’t your fault. None of is. If it wasn’t for her, none of this would have happened. And I brought her into our lives. Please don’t cry, love. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. How about I go get the book and we can have a look, yeah?”

Sherlock wiped at the tears and nodded.

John returned a few minutes later with the book and moved his chair around to sit beside Sherlock. “Not sure if this is exactly the book we’re looking for, but it looked good in the bookstore.”

“It’s . . . on . . . p . . . pos . . . itions?”

“Yeah. Thought we could look through it and maybe mark a few we both agreed on. Talk about them. Maybe look at some videos on how they work. We’re not doing anything at all unless we both agree. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded. Slowly they went through each page. John would mark the pages that they agreed on. There were a few that Sherlock vetoed outright. And some John didn’t think he’d like to try. 

When they’d finished going through the pages, John put the book down and took Sherlock’s hand. “You okay?”

“I . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so. J . . . just . . . l . . . looking . . . at . . . s . . . some . . . of . . . th . . . those . . . p . . . pictures . . . t . . . took . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . ware . . . h . . . house. B . . . but . . . j . . . just . . . fl . . . flashes.”

“I’m so sorry. But we don’t have to ever look at those pictures again.”

“B . . . but . . . s . . . some . . . d . . . day . . . m . . . maybe . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . can. I . . . h . . . hope . . . once . . . w . . . we . . . st . . . start . . . b . . . being . . . in . . . ti . . . m . . . mate . . . w . . . with . . . each . . . o . . . other . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . we’ll . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . move . . . on . . . fr . . . from . . . th . . . this.”

“Maybe. But you can’t push yourself. You’ve been seeing Dr. Cooper for awhile now. I’m sure he’s told you that people don’t recover from something that you’ve gone through in exactly the same way. It may be that you’ll be able to do some of those things someday. Maybe never. What matters is that you don’t push yourself to do things that you think I want but that end up hurting you. You’ve done that so many times since we met. I don’t want you doing that when we have sex.” John reached out and touched Sherlock’s face. “The last thing I want to do is to hurt you. Things will go the way they go. We have the rest of our lives to be together in every way. Don’t worry.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “I . . . kn . . . know. I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . it . . . t . . . to . . . a . . . all . . . g . . . go . . . a . . . way. I’ve . . . f . . . finally . . . g . . . gotten . . . ev . . . ery . . . th . . . thing . . . I . . . e . . . ever . . . w . . . wanted. I’ve . . . g . . . got . . . you. And . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . w . . . want . . . th . . . there . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . any . . . im . . . p . . . ped . . . iment . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . that. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . let . . . th . . . them . . . c . . . control . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . let . . . h . . . her . . . w . . . win. And . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . h . . . help . . . th . . . thinking . . . th . . . that . . . if . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . set . . . b . . . bound . . . aries . . . and . . . l . . . limits . . . on . . . b . . . being . . . in . . . ti . . . m . . . mate . . . w . . . with . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . other . . . th . . . then . . . sh . . . she . . . w . . . wins.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “Sh . . . she . . . w . . . wins . . . J . . . John. Sh . . . she wins.”

“I don’t like it any better than you do. I don’t. But we can’t know what the future will bring. There’s no sense worrying about it. Or giving her the least bit of thought. She tried to ruin you. But you’re here. We’re together. We’ve won against her.”

“Sh . . . she . . . t . . . took . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . fr . . . from . . . m . . . me . . . fr . . . from . . . us.”

“But we’re together now. She failed. She wanted to keep us apart, but it didn’t work.”

Sherlock nodded. He reached out and took John’s hand, bringing it to his lips. “N . . . no . . . it . . . d . . . didn’t.” 

“It’s okay, love. We’re okay. Let’s put the book away for now, okay? We’ll talk more about it later.”

Sherlock nodded again. He took a sip of his now-cold tea. He still feared that John would never feel free to make love to him the way he’d imagined. That he’d never enjoy it. That there would be so much regimentation to it that he would never feel able to be spontaneous. It would be like writing a story with so many rules attached to it that it would be impossible to introduce any imagination to it. 

He wanted John. He wanted to give all of himself to John, without any restrictions. He’d already given his heart, his mind, his soul to John. But his body . . . that was the problem. He wanted to give John the pleasure that sex would bring him. He wanted to experience what it felt like to make love to someone he completely and totally loved. And he wanted to experience what it felt like to have someone who loved him completely and totally make love to him. 

And because he loved John, it was John’s pleasure that he was most concerned with. He’d read somewhere that the difference between sex and making love was sex was just caring about your own pleasure and making love was caring about the other person’s pleasure. He was so afraid he couldn’t give John the pleasure he wanted to give him. It was all so new to him. Before John, he never really considered it. He’d taken biology in school. He knew the mechanics of it, but not the practicalities. Did John like oral sex best? Anal? Hand jobs? Frotting? A combination? Was it different for him with men then with women? He knew that John had never had anal sex with anyone. Could he do that to John, if John wanted it?

They still had time. Nights ahead to work on touching more and more of each other. He knew he had to allow himself to let John touch him below the waistline. What would it feel like to have John touch his penis? He could only imagine. And his mind flashed again, just for a second, he was back there. He was screaming while they touched him. 

“N . . . no . . .” he whispered. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to erase the image from his mind. He brought his shaking hands to his face. “Oh . . . G . . . God.” He struggled for a few seconds and then brought himself under control. “It . . . w . . . won’t . . . b . . . be . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . with . . . J . . . John,” he whispered to himself.

John. 

If it wasn’t for John, he’d never have gotten through this. John had been his rock, his touchstone. Without him, Sherlock knew he’d still be in the hospital. John had brought him back to himself, at least as much of himself that was left. Because of John, Sherlock was home, and it was home because John was there. 

John came back into the room, reaching to pick up his cup. Sherlock reached out to John, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him close. He rested his forehead against John’s stomach.

“Ooof,” John said in surprise. “Hey now, what’s wrong?” He put one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and the other in his hair. 

“I . . . l . . . love . . . you. A . . . and . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . thank . . . you.”

“For what?”

“F . . . for . . . l . . . loving . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . back. F . . . for . . . br . . . bringing . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . home. F . . . for . . . s . . . saving . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. Th . . . there . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more . . . w . . . without . . . you.”

John could feel wetness spreading on his shirt. “Hey, it’s okay.” He pulled away from Sherlock and dropped to his knees, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Everything’s fine. I love you. It’s the easiest thing in the world for me to love you. You don’t have to thank me for it. It’s my honour. It’s my privilege to love you. And you have saved me in more ways that I could ever name.”

“I . . . w . . . would . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . survived . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . th . . . this . . . w . . . without . . . you. You’re . . . th . . . the . . . w . . . world . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me. Th . . . the . . . wh . . . whole . . . w . . . world.” Sherlock looked up at John. 

There was such love, such trust, such truth in Sherlock’s eyes. John kissed him, long and deep. “You’re mine. I’m yours. We belong together. I wouldn’t be the person I am now without you.”

Sherlock kissed him again. “Th . . . this . . . is . . . a . . . all . . . I’ll . . . e . . . ever . . . w . . . want. T . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . with . . . you. And . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . ruin . . . us. I . . . w . . . won’t . . . l . . . let . . . th . . . them.”

“I’m here for you. If you need me for anything.”

Sherlock reached up and touched John’s face. “I . . . kn . . . know . . . you . . . w . . . won’t . . . e . . . ever . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me . . . J . . . John. N . . . never.”

“Never, love.” John gathered Sherlock into his arms. “Don’t fret. When we’re together for the first time, we’ll work it out. We have our whole lives to be together.”

Sherlock nodded. “C . . . can . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . some . . . m . . . more . . . tea? M . . . mine’s . . . g . . . gone . . . c . . . cold.”

“Sure, love,” John said as he stood up and kissed his forehead.

“C . . . can . . . w . . . we . . . s . . . sit . . . on . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sofa?” 

John put the kettle on and lifted Sherlock up and sat him on the sofa. He joined him a few minutes later, passing him his cup. Sherlock shivered.

“Cold?”

“St . . . starting . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be. Gu . . . guess . . . I . . . g . . . got . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . p . . . portion . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . d . . . day . . . in . . . b . . . before . . . I . . . st . . . started . . . f . . . feeling . . . aw . . . ful.”

“What else besides the chills?” John asked as he wrapped Sherlock in a thick quilt. 

“H . . . headache . . . t . . . tired . . . a . . . achy.”

John felt his forehead. “Bit feverish.” 

“It . . . j . . . just . . . h . . . hit . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . a . . . s . . . sudden.”

“I’ll get you some paracetamol.”

Sherlock slept for the rest of the afternoon and didn’t even wake up when Rosie came home from school. John didn’t want to wake him for dinner, so he put his food in the fridge. It was nearly eight before Sherlock woke up, yawning and stretching. Since it was a Friday, Rosie was still up. 

She cuddled next to Sherlock. “Feeling better now?”

“A . . . l . . . little.” 

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” she said as she patted his arm and kissed his cheek. 

“Th . . . thank . . . you . . . R . . . Rosie.”

“Feeling any better?” John asked.

“H . . . headache’s . . . g . . . gone. St . . . still . . . a . . . achy . . . and . . . c . . . cold.”

“Want to go to bed?”

“I’m . . . r . . . really . . . c . . . cold. I . . . th . . . think . . . s . . . so. You . . . st . . . stay . . . h . . . here . . . w . . . with . . . R . . . Rosie. I’ll . . . a . . . ask . . . Br . . . Brad . . . t . . . to . . . p . . . put . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . b . . . bed.”

Sherlock was soon in bed, under a few extra blankets. He’d had a long nap, but his eyes were heavy and it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

The next morning, dawned bright and sunny and was surprisingly warm. John and Rosie got up early and set about to clean the flat, knowing they would be having visitors that evening. 

Sherlock didn’t wake up until nearly 11. He was still cold and achy but he didn’t have a headache and he wasn’t as exhausted as he had been. 

By the time he was bathed and dressed, John had made lunch for the three of them. Sherlock sat shivering dressed in a heavy jumper with a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders. John had made him a nice stew that would warm him along with steaming tea. 

When John and Rosie did the dishes, Sherlock sat in his chair beside the small fire that John had started in the fireplace. 

“You’re in misery, aren’t you?” John said as he knelt down in front of him. 

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . g . . . get . . . w . . . warm.”

“You haven’t got much of a fever. I’ll get you another blanket.” 

John returned with a thick comforter and pushed Sherlock’s chair closer to the fire. “Is that better?”

Sherlock nodded as he burrowed down into the blankets. “Wh . . . why . . . d . . . don’t . . . you . . . and . . . R . . . Rosie . . . g . . . go . . . out . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . awhile? It’s . . . a . . . b . . . beautiful . . . d . . . day. W . . . won’t . . . b . . . be . . . m . . . many . . . m . . . more . . . b . . . before . . . th . . . the . . . c . . . cold . . . w . . . weather . . . is . . . h . . . here . . . t . . . to . . . st . . . stay.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you here by yourself if you’re not feeling well.”

“I’m . . . n . . . not . . . a . . . alone. S . . . Sam’s . . . h . . . here. J . . . just . . . l . . . leave . . . th . . . the . . . TV . . . on.”

“You’re sure?”

“G . . . go . . . a . . . ahead.”

John and Rosie went to the park and stopped at the bakery to pick up some treats for their company. By the time they returned, it was mid-afternoon. Rosie took Aurora and Gladstone up to her room to play and listen to music. 

Sherlock was still huddled in front of the fire and still shaking. John moved his own chair closer to the fire and picked Sherlock up, sitting down on his chair with Sherlock in his lap. Sherlock cuddled into him, desperate for the warmth of his body. 

“You’re still cold?”

“Fr . . . freezing,” he said through chattering teeth. “You . . . sm . . . smell . . . l . . . like . . . s . . . sun . . . shine.”

“It is a beautiful day. We took our jackets but didn’t need them. Rosie and I picked up some treats for tonight.” 

“I . . . I’m . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . n . . . nervous . . . a . . . about . . . t . . . to . . . night.”

“Why? It’s your family.”

“I . . . I’ve . . . al . . . ways . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . the . . . bl . . . black . . . sh . . . sheep . . . J . . . John. I’m . . . a . . . afraid . . . if . . . I . . . t . . . tell . . . th . . . them . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . th . . . they’re . . . ash . . . amed . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . they’ll . . . c . . . confirm . . . it.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know for sure? I can’t believe that your parents are ashamed of you.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know. I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . I’m . . . a . . . d . . . dis . . . appoint . . . m . . . ment. I’ve . . . a . . . always . . . f . . . felt . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . way. L . . . like . . . th . . . they . . . t . . . told . . . M . . . My . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . look . . . a . . . after . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . because . . . th . . . they . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . bothered.”

“Sherlock, your parents are the kindest people I know. They can’t feel that way.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“And you know Mycroft loves you. He’s told you so. I won’t say there’s always been an easy relationship between the two of you, but he’s helped you and you’ve helped him.”

“I . . . kn . . . know. D . . . despite . . . e . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . h . . . he’s . . . al . . . ways . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . there . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . when . . . I’m . . . in . . . t . . . trouble. I’d . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . survived . . . m . . . my . . . dr . . . drug . . . add . . . iction . . . w . . . without . . . h . . . him. W . . . we . . . s . . . say . . . dr . . . dreadful . . . th . . . things . . . t . . . to . . . e . . . each . . . o . . . other . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . h . . . he’ll . . . al . . . ways . . . b . . . be . . . th . . . the . . . one . . . wh . . . who . . . I . . . r . . . ran . . . t . . . to . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . afraid . . . as . . . a . . . ch . . . child.”

“You know you can depend on him. He worries about you. And he’s always there for you.” 

“A . . . and . . . n . . . now . . . I . . . h . . . have . . . you . . . t . . . too. You’re . . . al . . . ways . . . th . . . there . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me.”

“And always will be,” John said as he kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “And you get to see your little brother tonight too.”

“I . . . am . . . v . . . very . . . h . . . happy . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . F . . . Ford. I’ve . . . m . . . missed . . . h . . . him . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much. I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . e . . . even . . . s . . . supposed . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . talk . . . about . . . h . . . him. It . . . w . . . was . . . h . . . hard . . . n . . . not . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . tell . . . you . . . a . . . about . . . h . . . him. I . . . n . . . never . . . l . . . liked . . . k . . . keeping . . . s . . . secrets . . . f . . . from . . . you.”

“You had no choice. It’s okay.”

They sat in silence for awhile as Sherlock continued to shake with cold. John called Sam and asked him to bring another blanket. 

“I . . . h . . . hate . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

“How about I send Sam down to the Tesco to pick up a couple of hot water bottles? We can put them under the blankets to warm you up even more. It might help.”

“Th . . . that . . . s . . . sounds . . . g . . . good.”

After dinner was over, John dressed Sherlock in warmer clothes including two jumpers, a pair of thick trousers under another pair, and several pairs of socks. John wrapped a thick comforter around him and filled the hot water bottles, placing one on his lap, one behind his back, and one against his stomach. 

Sherlock sighed as he finally started to feel a bit warmer. 

It was about 7:30 when Mycroft arrived with their parents and Ford. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Ford hugged Sherlock.

“S . . . sorry . . . I’m . . . in . . . s . . . such . . . a . . . st . . . state. I . . . h . . . haven’t . . . b . . . been . . . f . . . feeling . . . w . . . well . . . s . . . since . . . I . . . g . . . got . . . o . . . out . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . h . . . hos . . . pital.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” his mother said. She felt his forehead. “You do feel rather cold, dear.” 

“J . . . John’s . . . b . . . been . . . l . . . looking . . . at . . . m . . . me. It’s . . . b . . . been . . . m . . . mis . . . erable.”

“There’s nothing that can be done?” Mrs. Holmes asked John.

“His body’s in shock from everything that he’s gone through. Some days he feels better. Some days worse. But he is getting better.”

John went into the kitchen to make them all some tea, and he and Rosie served everyone tea and the treats they’d bought. 

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and all three Holmes brothers made a fuss over Rosie. She offered to take Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Ford up to see her room and let her meet her kitten. All three followed her into the lift and went upstairs. John used the opportunity to refill Sherlock’s hot water bottles. 

“Are you really so cold?” Mycroft asked, as he saw that Sherlock was clearly wearing lots of extra clothes. 

“F . . . freezing. It’s . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . since . . . y . . . yest . . . erday.” 

“We’ve had a fire on, and he was sitting in front of it all day. Usually we leave him in bed and cover him up with a lot of blankets.”

“B . . . but . . . at . . . l . . . least . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . ex . . . hausted. L . . . last . . . n . . . night . . . I . . . sl . . . slept . . . f . . . for . . . h . . . hours . . . and . . . hours.”

“It must be very frustrating.”

“It . . . is. Um . . . M . . . My. I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . talk . . . t . . . to . . . M . . . Mummy . . . and . . . D . . . Daddy . . . a . . . alone. I’m . . . n . . . not . . . t . . . trying . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . r . . . rude . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . cl . . . clear . . . th . . . the . . . air . . . w . . . with . . . th . . . them.”

“Alright,” Mycroft said, a look of confusion on his face. 

“It’s . . . j . . . just . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . n . . . need . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . talk . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . them . . . a . . . about . . . wh . . . why . . . I . . . ob . . . ject . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . them . . . c . . . coming . . . b . . . by . . . s . . . some . . . t . . . times.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . u . . . upset . . . th . . . them. I . . . kn . . . know . . . it . . . u . . . upsets . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

“Of course it does. You’re their son. They love you.”

After they came back downstairs, Sherlock asked his parents if they could talk in the bedroom.

When the door had been shut and they’d sat down on the edge of Sherlock and John’s bed, Sherlock took a deep breath and began.

“I . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . t . . . talk . . . t . . . to . . . you . . . f . . . for . . . a . . . f . . . few . . . min . . . utes.”

“What’s wrong?” his father asked.

“N . . . nothing. I . . . j . . . just . . . I . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . say . . . th . . . that . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . in . . . vite . . . you . . . h . . . here . . . a . . . as . . . of . . . ten . . . as . . . I . . . sh . . . should. It’s . . . j . . . just . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . s . . . see . . . h . . . how . . . m . . . much . . . it . . . up . . . s . . . sets . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . me . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this.”

“It does. I’m sorry. We don’t mean to upset you,” Mummy said, sniffling.

“Of . . . c . . . course . . . it . . . d . . . does. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . l . . . like . . . s . . . seeing . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents . . . in . . . t . . . tears. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . l . . . like . . . c . . . causing . . . you . . . p . . . pain. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . h . . . help . . . b . . . but . . . th . . . think . . . I’ve . . . d . . . done . . . n . . . nothing . . . b . . . but . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life. I . . . kn . . . know . . . I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . n . . . nothing . . . b . . . but . . . a . . . d . . . dis . . . appoint . . . m . . . ment . . . t . . . to . . . you. I . . . d . . . did . . . n . . . nothing . . . b . . . but . . . g . . . get . . . in . . . tr . . . trouble . . . as . . . a . . . ch . . . child. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . g . . . go . . . f . . . farther . . . in . . . u . . . uni. I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . dr . . . drug . . . a . . . addict. I . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . as . . . s . . . successful . . . as . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford. I . . . b . . . became . . . a . . . d . . . det . . . ective. And . . . I’m . . . n . . . nothing . . . n . . . now. Ab . . . s . . . solutely . . . n . . . nothing. I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . s . . . sorry . . . th . . . that . . . I’m . . . an . . . em . . . barrassment.” Sherlock couldn’t bear to look at them. He’d let it all out. All of what he’d feared most his whole life. He’d said it, and he was sure they were going to confirm it. And it was going to break his heart.

He heard a sniffling sound and dared to look up. His mother was crying, and his father had tears in his eyes.

“Is that what you really think?” Daddy said. “That you embarrass us? That we’re disappointed in you?”

“H . . . how . . . c . . . could . . . I . . . n . . . not? You . . . w . . . were . . . al . . . ways . . . s . . . so . . . pr . . . proud . . . of . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford. I . . . al . . . ways . . . f . . . felt . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . the . . . st . . . stupid . . . one.” Sherlock’s voice was thick with emotion; his eyes were wet with tears.

“Oh, Sherlock,” his mother said, her voice also thick with emotion. “Is that what you thought?” She got up and came over to him. His wheelchair was at the end of the bed, and she sat on the bed and reached over to touch his face. “You were always so independent. You always seemed like you didn’t need us or want us.”

Sherlock was surprised. “I . . . th . . . thought . . . you . . . d . . . didn’t . . . c . . . care . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . me . . . as . . . m . . . much . . . as . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford. S . . . so . . . I . . . cl . . . closed . . . m . . . myself . . . off. Af . . . ter . . . I . . . st . . . started . . . sch . . . ool . . . a . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . other . . . ch . . . children . . . d . . . didn’t . . . w . . . want . . . a . . . any . . . th . . . thing . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . I . . . kn . . . knew . . . th . . . that . . . th . . . there . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing . . . wr . . . wrong . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . d . . . deserved . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . l . . . loved. It . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . un . . . until . . . J . . . John . . . t . . . told . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . loved . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . w . . . worth . . . it.”

Mummy gathered Sherlock in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. We love you. We love you so much. We always have, always will.”

Daddy moved to sit beside Mummy. He reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. “You deserve all the love in the world, Sherlock. You’re a wonderful person. I . . . I don’t know how we could have missed that you felt this way.”

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . j . . . just . . . d . . . didn’t . . . th . . . think . . .”

“No. It’s not your fault. We thought you were so independent. We thought you just didn’t need us as much as your brothers did. You never came to us when you were upset.”

“I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . th . . . think . . . you . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to. I . . . w . . . went . . . t . . . to . . . M . . . My. H . . . he . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . hug . . . m . . . me . . . and . . . t . . . tell . . . m . . . me . . . e . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . al . . . right. Un . . . til . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . went . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . boarding . . . s . . . school . . . and . . . th . . . then . . . I . . . h . . . had . . . n . . . no . . . o . . . one.”

“You would have always had us, Sherlock. Always,” Mummy sniffed. “You’ll always have us.” She hugged him even tighter.

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . M . . . Mummy. I’ve . . . m . . . made . . . you . . . c . . . cry . . . a . . . again. I’ve . . . d . . . done . . . n . . . nothing . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . b . . . but . . . d . . . dis . . . appoint . . . you.”

“You’ve never disappointed us, son,” Daddy said.

“I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . dr . . . drug . . . a . . . addict,” Sherlock said.

“We were never disappointed in you. You were sick,” Mummy said.

“S . . . so . . . you . . . w . . . weren’t . . . em . . . b . . . barrased . . . b . . . by . . . m . . . me?” Sherlock asked, looking up at them in surprise.

“Of course not. We love you. Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy leaned towards him and kissed him repeatedly on the cheek. “We’re so proud of you. You’ve been through so much. You’ve been so hurt so many times. And we thought you didn’t want us around that much.”

“I . . . d . . . do . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . a . . . around. I . . . l . . . love . . . you. B . . . but . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . th . . . think . . . you . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me.”

“We do. We always have. How can we ever forgive ourselves for making you feel unloved?” Daddy said. Tears were running down his face.

“I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . w . . . want . . . you . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . feel . . . b . . . bad. I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . didn’t. I . . . th . . . thought . . . you . . . d . . . didn’t . . . c . . . care.” 

“We’ll always care, my boy. Always,” Daddy said, squeezing his hand. 

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . I . . . up . . . s . . . set . . . you. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . m . . . mean . . . t . . . to.”

“I know. I know you didn’t. Sherlock . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry you’ve felt this way all of your life. To think you thought you weren’t worth being loved,” Mummy sobbed, squeezing him tight. 

“Oh, my boy. My boy,” Daddy said as he hugged Sherlock from the other side.

Sherlock cried even harder. His parents loved him. They really loved him. They always had. He had assumed they didn’t. That no one wanted him. “I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . s . . . sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not,” Mummy said.

“Oh . . . M . . . Mummy . . . D . . . Daddy . . . pl . . . please . . . f . . . forgive . . . m . . . me. I . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . m . . . mean . . . t . . . to . . . u . . . up . . . s . . . set . . . you.” Sherlock began sobbing. “It’s . . . m . . . me. I’ve . . . a . . . always . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . so . . . st . . . st . . . stupid.” He began to rock back and forth, his hands covering his face. “I’ve . . . r . . . ruined . . . it . . . a . . . all.”

“You haven’t ruined anything, dear. It’s okay. It’s all okay. We’re hear for you. We’ll always be here for you,” Mummy said as she hugged him. 

Sherlock was shaking, almost uncontrollably. And nearly wailing with grief. There was the sound of rushing blood in his ears. He knew his parents were talking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. All this time. All this wasted time. It was the same as it had been with John. He’d made assumptions based on the evidence that he’d been presented. But, as much as they had done him in extremely good stead in the area of his work, they had proved time and again that they were absolute rubbish in his private life. He’d almost ruined his relationship with John more times than he cared to remember. And with Mycroft and Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. It was him. It was all him. 

He was a terrible person. He’d hurt his parents by accusing them of not caring about him. He broke down even further, gulping for breath. He heard a dog barking and a loud scratching noise over everything. 

And then . . . someone was touching him, picking him up from the wheelchair and sitting down with him on their lap, wrapping their arms around him and squeezing him tight. Sherlock was blinded by tears, unable to hear due to the roaring in his ears, but he knew the touch of the hand in his hair. He was surrounded by a scent that immediately screamed love, home, safety. 

He reached out blindly, tangling his hands in John’s sweater. His head moved to that special spot on John’s neck where his forehead fit so well. 

Slowly his ragged breath began to calm, the blood stopped rushing through his ears. 

“Shhh, Sherlock. It’s alright. Everything’s alright,” he heard a beloved voice say quietly.

“I . . . I . . . I’ve . . . r . . . ruined . . . th . . . things. I . . . I’ve . . . u . . . upset . . . M . . . M . . . Mummy . . . and . . . D . . . D . . . Daddy. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . m . . . mean . . . t . . . to.”

“I know you didn’t. You would never do it on purpose.”

“Wh . . . what’s . . . wr . . . wrong . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me? I . . . h . . . hurt . . . e . . . every . . . one.”

“Oh, love. It’s alright. Everything is alright. We all love you. All of us. You’re so dear to us.”

Sherlock felt hands on his shoulders, his arm.

“All of us,” he heard Mummy say.

“We love you,” Daddy said.

“We’re here for you, Brother Mine,” Mycroft said.

“Always,” Ford said.

“Forever and ever, Uncle Sherlock,” Rosie said.

He looked up. He was surrounded by his family. They were all touching him, all looking at him with love on their faces. He felt overwhelmed. How could he have ever thought no one cared about him? 

“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . so . . . sorry . . . t . . . to . . . up . . . s . . . set . . . e . . . every . . . one.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Don’t worry,” John said.

“I’ve . . . r . . . ruined . . . th . . . the . . . v . . . visit. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . m . . . mean . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . ruin . . . it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Sherlock,” Ford said. He sat down beside John and took his brother’s hand. “I’m so happy to be here. I’m so happy to see you. I’ve missed you so much. I’m glad I got the opportunity to come to your home, to meet John and Rosie. To be a part of your life. Even if it is just for a little while. You’re my big brother. And you’re important to me. You always will be.”

“And you’re our son. We love you. And we’re so sorry that you’ve felt like this your whole life. I don’t know how we can ever make it up to you, son,” Mummy said as she kissed the top of his head.

“It’s . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . fault. I . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . assumed . . . w . . . with . . . th . . . the . . . e . . . evidence . . . I . . . h . . . had. You . . . sp . . . spent . . . m . . . more . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . you . . . l . . . loved . . . th . . . them . . . and . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . me.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Daddy said. “We’re sorry. We’re so sorry that we made you feel that way. We’ve always loved you and always will.”

“You’ve spent your whole life thinking no one cared. I’m sorry, Brother. If I’d known you felt that way, I would have disabused you of that notion right away,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock reached out and took Mycroft’s hand. “You’ve . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . there . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. You . . . t . . . took . . . c . . . care . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . when . . . e . . . even . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . c . . . care . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . my . . . o . . . own . . . l . . . life. You . . . s . . . sat . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . wh . . . while . . . I . . . c . . . came . . . d . . . down . . . and . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . ODed. And . . . y . . . you’ve . . . a . . . always . . . c . . . come . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . rescue.”

“Of course I do. You’re my little brother.” Mycroft squeezed Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock smiled then. A small smile, but one nonetheless. “L . . . let’s . . . g . . . go . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sitting . . . r . . . room. I . . . c . . . could . . . u . . . use . . . a . . . c . . . cup . . . of . . . tea. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . sp . . . spend . . . s . . . some . . . t . . . time . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . family.” 

John sat Sherlock down on the bed and went to get a flannel to wipe Sherlock’s face. “You okay?” he asked quietly as everyone else went out to the sitting room. 

“I . . . th . . . think . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . f . . . first . . . t . . . time . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be.”

John smiled and kissed his forehead. He put Sherlock back in his wheelchair and wrapped him back up in the comforter before wheeling him back out.

The rest of the evening was very nice. John made them tea and periodically refilled Sherlock’s hot water bottles. He was sitting on the sofa between his parents. Each of them was holding one of his hands. Sherlock and his family were talking quietly about some good memories of family outings and funny stories. 

John picked up a sleeping Rosie and took her up to tuck her into bed. When he came downstairs, he stood back, not wanting to intrude on Sherlock reconnecting with the family he was sure didn’t want him. Sherlock looked so happy that it made John tear up a little. 

Sherlock looked up at John. “Wh . . . why . . . are . . . you . . . st . . . standing . . . o . . . over . . . th . . . there?”

“I . . . um . . . didn’t want to intrude on a family moment.”

“You’re part of the family, John,” Mummy said. “Both you and Rosie. You’ve done so much for Sherlock. And you’re the man he loves. You’ve made him so happy. Now come sit down. You’re officially a Holmes.”

John smiled and sat down. 

It was after midnight before Mummy, Daddy, Mycroft, and Ford left. Mummy and Daddy promised to call and visit more often. Mummy said they had a lot of time to make up for. Mycroft promised he would work out something with MI6 so that Ford could visit more. 

Sherlock was yawning sleepily as John got him ready for bed. He dressed him in the warmest pyjamas he could find and put several blankets on Sherlock’s side of the bed. When he got into bed, he pulled Sherlock into his arms.

“Th . . . thank . . . you.” 

“For what?”

“F . . . for . . . b . . . being . . . h . . . here . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . em . . . b . . . barrased . . . a . . . about . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . happened. I . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . s . . . so . . . o . . . over . . . wh . . . whelmed. I . . . I . . . h . . . hated . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . h . . . hurt . . . th . . . them.”

“You’ve been in pain since you were a child, Sherlock. You thought your own parents didn’t love you as much as your brothers. You thought you were a disappointment to them. It hurt you.”

“I . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . assumed . . . b . . . because . . . of . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . o . . . observed. It . . . h . . . helps . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . with . . . c . . . cases . . . b . . . but . . . a . . . apparently . . . it’s . . . c . . . completely . . . wr . . . wrong . . . wh . . . when . . . it . . . c . . . comes . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . my . . . pr . . . private . . . l . . . life. I . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . myself . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life. And . . . I . . . h . . . hurt . . . th . . . them . . . t . . . telling . . . th . . . them . . . h . . . how . . . I . . . f . . . felt. I . . . sh . . . shouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . said . . . a . . . anything. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . d . . . do . . . any . . . thing . . . b . . . but . . . h . . . hurt . . . p . . . people . . . I . . . c . . . care . . . a . . . about.” Sherlock sobbed quietly into John’s chest.

“They weren’t angry, love. They were so worried about you when I came in.” 

“Th . . . they . . . s . . . said . . . th . . . they . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . assumed . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . n . . . need . . . th . . . them . . . as . . . m . . . much . . . as . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford. Th . . . they . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . r . . . really . . . in . . . dep . . . endent. B . . . but . . . I . . . w . . . wasn’t. I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . alone. A . . . all . . . a . . . alone. N . . . no . . . one . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me. N . . . no . . . one.”

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and hugged him tighter. “I’m so sorry. All the pain you went through.”

“B . . . but . . . I . . . d . . . did . . . it . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . myself.”

“Don’t blame yourself. You were just a kid. And you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Oh, love. Please. It’s alright. You’re not alone. Not anymore. Never again.”

Sherlock nodded. “T . . . to . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . a . . . assumed . . . w . . . with . . . you . . . t . . . too. Th . . . that’s . . . wh . . . why . . . it . . . t . . . took . . . s . . . so . . . l . . . long . . . f . . . for . . . us . . . t . . . to . . . a . . . admit . . . h . . . how . . . w . . . we . . . f . . . felt. I . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . lost . . . you.”

“But you didn’t. We have each other now.”

“If . . . I . . . h . . . hadn’t . . . m . . . met . . . you . . . I . . . th . . . think .. . . I’d . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . d . . . dead . . . b . . . by . . . n . . . now.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s . . . tr . . . true. I’d . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . let . . . th . . . the . . . dr . . . drugs . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . by . . . n . . . now. I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . a . . . afraid . . . of . . . b . . . being . . . a . . . alone . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . r . . . rest . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. I . . . w . . . was . . . r . . . really . . . r . . . ready . . . t . . . to . . . end . . . it . . . a . . . all. M . . . My . . . w . . . would . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . have . . . f . . . found . . . m . . . me.”

John shivered in fear to think how close he had come to losing Sherlock forever. He felt a lump forming in his throat and the crawling fingers of dread creeping up the back of his neck and up into his hair. “Oh God, Sherlock. Do you know how close I was to killing myself before I met you? You saved my life. You absolutely saved my life.”

“And . . . you . . . s . . . saved . . . m . . . me. You . . . d . . . did. I’m . . . h . . . here . . . b . . . because . . . of . . . you. O . . . only . . . you. I’d . . . d . . . die . . . f . . . for . . . you.”

“I don’t want you to die for me. I want you to live for me. Promise me that, Sherlock. Promise me that you’ll live for me.”

“I . . . w . . . will. I . . . pr . . . promise.”

John closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. The man he was holding in his arms, and the little girl sleeping upstairs, were his whole reason for being. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing either one of them. He loved them so. And they both needed him. He’d never felt needed before Rosie was born. He’d never had anyone in his life that he’d been close to committing to before Mary. And Mary certainly didn’t need him; she’d been the epitome of independence. 

It wasn’t because of his disabilities that Sherlock needed him. It was John’s love that he needed. And that was something John was happy to give him. And he needed Sherlock just as much. Sherlock’s love made him feel alive. For so much of his life he had merely existed. In combat, he’d welcome the adrenaline rush, mistaking it for feeling alive. When he met Sherlock, the adrenaline rush of the cases masked the rush he got just from being in Sherlock’s company. It wasn’t until he finally accepted that he loved Sherlock that he opened himself up and allowed himself, for the first time, to truly give himself to another person.

Sherlock shivered. John pulled the covers up higher. “Are you okay?”

“I . . . I’m . . . s . . . still . . . u . . . upset. I . . . h . . . hate . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . d . . . did. I . . . h . . . hate . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . p . . . put . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents . . . th . . . through.”

“I imagine they’re thinking they hate what they put you through. It was a misunderstanding. A huge misunderstanding and misinterpretation on both sides. It caused all of you a lot of pain. But it’s worked out now. I know it hurts, and I know you feel guilty, but you can’t let it continue to ruin your relationship with your parents. You’ve got a great chance here to rebuild and strengthen your ties with your Mum and Dad. I would give anything if I could have just a day with my Mum. Or if I could have helped my Dad stay sober.”

“I’ve . . . w . . . wasted . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . t . . . time. I’ve . . . sp . . . spent . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life . . . w . . . wasting . . . t . . . time. W . . . with . . . th . . . them . . . and . . . w . . . with . . . you.”

“We’re together now. And it’s not too late with your parents. You can’t live in the past. You and Dr. Cooper have discussed that. You have to live now and live looking forward. We have so much to look forward to and so many things to do together. Right?”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s . . . h . . . hard . . . b . . . but . . . I’ll . . . t . . . try.” He yawned and snuggled into John. He was still shivering. 

“Let me go warm up the hot water bottles,” John said as he got out of bed. He returned a few minutes later with the bottles and put them against Sherlock’s back and stomach and another between his legs. 

Sherlock sighed. 

“Feel better?” John asked as he got back into bed. 

“W . . . warmer.”

“Good.” John kissed Sherlock deeply. He laid awake with Sherlock in his arms until he was sure Sherlock was asleep before falling asleep himself.

Sherlock woke feeling better. He was achy and his head hurt but the awful coldness was gone and he wasn’t exhausted. John got him some paracetamol and the headache was dulled, though it never completely went away. 

All three of them went to the park with Gladstone in tow. Sherlock was wrapped in his Belstaff and enjoyed being outside. It took his mind off of his parents, and for that, he was grateful. 

John kept looking at him. And he was sure he was concerned about him. Sherlock schooled his face, trying not to betray anything. He knew that he had to talk to Dr. Cooper about this. In the meantime, he didn’t want John to worry about him. 

When Dr. Cooper came, Sherlock told him about the conversation he’d had with his parents and how it had made him feel.

“So you’ve felt your whole life like your parents didn’t care about you?”

“N . . . not . . . as . . . m . . . much . . . as . . . m . . . my . . . br . . . brothers. B . . . but . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . all . . . a . . . m . . . mis . . . under . . . s . . . standing. Th . . . they . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . .was . . . j . . . just . . . v . . . very . . . in . . . dep . . . endent . . . and . . . d . . . didn’t . . . n . . . need . . . th . . . them. I’ve . . . g . . . gone . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life . . . th . . . thinking . . . n . . . no . . . one . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me. You . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . tr . . . treated . . . at . . . s . . . school. I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . didn’t . . . h . . . have . . . any . . . fr . . . friends . . . u . . . until . . . I . . . m . . . met . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . and . . . M . . . Molly. A . . . and . . . it . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . u . . . until . . . J . . . John . . . t . . . told . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . loved . . . m . . . me . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . a . . . anyone . . . c . . . could . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me.”

“All over a misunderstanding.”

“M . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . better. M . . . maybe . . . I’d . . . h . . . have . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . m . . . much . . . h . . . happier . . . l . . . life.”

“You can’t live your life with might have beens, Sherlock. You know that. It’s certainly valid for you to feel that you missed out on a lot of things. On a potential great relationship with your parents. But if you let it define your life, it would be a mistake. You have an opportunity now. An opportunity that not many people ever get. You can rewrite how you and your parents get along. Now that you know they truly love you and want to be with you, you can learn how to relate to them.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. It did seem like a unique opportunity. “H . . . how?”

“Start with talking to them more. Call them. Talk to them. Build up to more time. Then have them visit. Visit them. You’re building something here. Take advantage of it.” 

Sherlock nodded. He could do that. He’d always been uncomfortable with his parents, but how much of that was his feeling that he wasn’t loved? 

“I . . . w . . . will. I’ll . . . c . . . call . . . th . . . them . . . a . . . after . . . our . . . s . . . session.”

True to his word, Sherlock called his parents as soon as Dr. Cooper left. He was at a bit of a loss as to what he should say, but his mother immediately put the phone on speaker and started talking about how they were so excited to be talking to him and looked forward to seeing him again. He kept the conversation short, promising to talk to them the next day and to see them whenever they wanted.

When he was off the phone, John looked at him. “How did it go?”

“It . . . w . . . was . . . st . . . strange. T . . . talking . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . them . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that. N . . . now . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . kn . . . know. It . . . f . . . feels . . . s . . . so . . .”

“So?”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . describe . . . it. I . . . l . . . love . . . th . . . them. I’ve . . . al . . . always . . . l . . . loved . . . th . . . them. I . . . j . . . just . . . I . . . n . . . never . . . th . . . thought . . . th . . . they . . . w . . . wanted . . . m . . . me. I’ve . . . a . . . always . . . th . . . thought . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . m . . . must . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . t . . . terrible . . . aw . . . awful . . . p . . . person . . . if . . . m . . . my . . . o . . . own . . . p . . . parents . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me.” A single tear trickled down Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ve . . . n . . . never . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . g . . . good . . . e . . . enough . . . t . . . to . . . ex . . . expect . . . any . . . anyone . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me. I . . . th . . . thought . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . n . . . never . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . liked . . . m . . . me. Th . . . that . . . h . . . he . . . j . . . just . . . u . . . used . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . help . . . s . . . solve . . . m . . . murders. And . . . M . . . Molly’s . . . l . . . love . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me. I . . . th . . . thought . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . l . . . lust. I . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . c . . . can’t . . . f . . . fathom . . . it. M . . . maybe . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . wr . . . wrong. M . . . maybe . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . person . . . I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was.” He looked up at John, his eye pleading for an answer.

“Oh, love. You’re not. You’re not an awful, terrible person. You were a lonely, frightened boy who was desperate for love. And you thought everyone was rejecting you. I can see why you thought that, but it’s not true. It’s never been true. You love. You have an almost unlimited capacity for love. And you’ve done so much for everyone that you love. You’ve been hurt so much to protect us. And I should know. You’ve given up everything for me. Because you love me.” John knelt down and reached out to touch Sherlock’s cheek, gently wiping the tear away with his thumb. “And now you know. You have all of us. We all love you. Your parents, your brothers, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Rosie, and me. Hell, even Billy and Anderson. We all love you. We’re your family. And we’re always, always going to be here for you. We’re going to be here to show you how important you are to us. How much you mean to us. How loved you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. He looked so young, so vulnerable, so full of hope. “R . . . really?” he said, his lower lip trembling. “You . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . think . . . I’m . . . im . . . portant? You . . . a . . . all . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me?”

“Of course, we do,” John said as he pulled Sherlock into his arms. “Always. Forever.”

Rosie had been sitting on the sofa with Aurora on her knee. She got up and came over. She patted Sherlock’s arm. “We all love you, Uncle Sherlock. Me and Aurora and Gladstone too.”

Sherlock smiled at her and reached out to hug her to him. “L . . . let’s . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . some . . . b . . . biscuits . . . hey?” 

Rosie smiled and nodded. 

John smiled at him and gently wiped Sherlock’s face, kissing him gently.

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry. I . . . sh . . . shouldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . said . . . th . . . those . . . th . . . things . . . in . . . f . . . front . . . of . . . R . . . Rosie.”

“It’s alright. She’s okay. She worries about you. So do I.”

“Oh . . . J . . . John.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m . . . s . . . so . . . c . . . con . . . fl . . . flicted . . . r . . . right . . . n . . . now. M . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . s . . . self . . . im . . . image . . . h . . . has . . . al . . . always . . . b . . . been . . . b . . . based . . . on . . . h . . . how . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents . . . f . . . felt . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . me. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . think . . . a . . . about . . . my . . . s . . . self. It’s . . . l . . . like . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . who . . . I . . . am . . . any . . . m . . . more.”

“It’s alright. Oh, love. You’re you. You’re my Sherlock. You’ll always be you.”

“B . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . better . . . p . . . person. I . . . m . . . might . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . k . . . kinder.” He looked down at his hands. “I . . . f . . . feel . . . l . . . like . . . a . . . f . . . failure.” 

“You’re not a failure. Never. I love you. I love you just the way you are.”

“B . . . but . . .”

“No buts,” John said. “You can’t live your life with might have beens.” 

“Th . . . that’s . . . wh . . . what . . . D . . . Doctor . . . C . . . Cooper . . . s . . . said.” 

“He’s right. You can’t think like that. Your life is yours now. There’s nothing holding you back. You can be whoever you want to be.”

“M . . . my . . . l . . . life’s . . . ch . . . changed . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . last . . . f . . . few . . . m . . . months. I’ve . . . l . . . lost . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . of . . . m . . . myself. B . . . but . . . th . . . that . . . p . . . person . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . r . . . real. H . . . he . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . based . . . on . . . a . . . wr . . . wrong . . . ass . . . umption. Wh . . . when . . . I . . . th . . . think . . . of . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain . . . I . . . p . . . put . . . m . . . myself . . . th . . . through . . .”

“Papa? Are we going to have biscuits?”

“Yes . . . w . . . we . . . are,” Sherlock said. “Are . . . you . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . make . . . tea . . . J . . . John?”

John looked surprised and froze for a second before saying, “Yeah, sure.” He pushed Sherlock to the table and put the kettle on before he poured Rosie a glass of milk and set out a plate of biscuits. Once the kettle boiled, he made two cups of tea and sat down beside Rosie. 

“D . . . don’t . . . w . . . we . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . some . . . of . . . th . . . those . . . d . . . doughnuts . . . th . . . that . . . you . . . and . . . R . . . Rosie . . . p . . . picked . . . up?”

John was still surprised at Sherlock’s sudden change of mood. He was sure he was just trying not to say anything that could have upset Rosie. “Yeah, I think so.” John rummaged around in the fridge and pulled out a small container. Inside were three doughnuts. 

“Oh, yum,” Rosie said as she took one. Sherlock took another and John the third. They sat and ate and drank in silence. Aurora jumped up on Rosie’s chair and onto her lap, purring loudly. 

Sherlock didn’t mention anything about his parents or his childhood for the rest of the day. He seemed like an entirely different person. He read stories to Rosie, watched a movie with her, and played a few board games with her and John. By the time Rosie’s bedtime came around, they’d had a very enjoyable day. Rosie kissed Sherlock on the cheek and he hugged her before she went to get into the bath. 

John went up to get Rosie’s clothes and left Sherlock on the sofa. 

It was nearly half an hour later before he came back downstairs after he’d gotten Rosie out of the tub, up to bed, and read her a story or two. He plopped down on the sofa next to Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking out the window, lost in thought. 

“Hey, you okay?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. 

“Love?” John said, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock sighed deeply. “It . . . all . . . s . . . seems . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know. I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . tr . . . trying . . . t . . . to . . . im . . . agine . . . wh . . . what . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been . . . l . . . like. And . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . c . . . can’t. I . . . c . . . could . . . n . . . never . . . m . . . make . . . fr . . . friends. All . . . of . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . other . . . ch . . . children . . . in . . . sch . . . school . . . h . . . hated . . . m . . . me. And . . . w . . . well . . . you . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . S . . . Seb . . . astian . . . s . . . said . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . in . . . u . . . uni. Wh . . . when . . . I . . . m . . . met . . . M . . . Molly . . . I . . . j . . . just . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . un . . . der . . . stand . . . wh . . . why . . . sh . . . she . . . s . . . seemed . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . like . . . m . . . me. I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . r . . . really . . . h . . . hateful . . . t . . . terrible . . . p . . . person. A . . . fr . . . freak. An . . . a . . . aberration. A . . . m . . . monster.”

“No. You’ve never been any of those things. Never. I wish I could have met you when you were a lonely, scared little boy. I would have been your friend. I would have told you that you were brilliant. Fantastic. Amazing. Extraordinary.” John reached out and brushed some of Sherlock’s hair off of his face. 

“I . . . w . . . wish . . . I . . . h . . . had . . . m . . . met . . . you . . . th . . . then . . . t . . . too. It’s . . . j . . . just . . . all . . . s . . . so . . . c . . . confusing. Th . . . this . . . qu . . . quote . . . k . . . keeps . . . g . . . going . . . th . . . through . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . head. Th . . . the . . . wr . . . writer . . . G . . . George . . . E . . . Eliot . . . s . . . said . . . It . . . is . . . n . . . never . . . t . . . too . . . l . . . late . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . wh . . . what . . . you . . . m . . . might . . . h . . . have . . . b . . . been.”

“A new beginning? That sounds great. Redefining your life. And you’ll have all of us to help you. There are so many of us who love you.”

“And . . . m . . . maybe . . . s . . . some . . . d . . . day . . . I’ll . . . f . . . feel . . .w . . . worthy . . . of . . . it.”

John pulled Sherlock into his arms. “I wish I could do something to prove to you that you’re absolutely worth loving.”

Sherlock snuggled into John. He was shaking. “Oh . . . J . . . John. I . . . I . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . so . . . l . . . lost. M . . . my . . . b . . . body . . . is . . . d . . . destroyed. M . . . my . . . l . . . legs . . . are . . . u . . . useless. M . . . my . . . h . . . hands . . . aren’t . . . m . . . much . . . b . . . better. A . . . and . . . I’m . . . sc . . . scarred . . . fr . . . from . . . h . . . head . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . foot. M . . . my . . . m . . . mind . . . is . . . n . . . nearly . . . u . . . useless . . . es . . . especially . . . n . . . now. And . . . wh . . . who . . . kn . . . knows . . . if . . . it’ll . . . e . . . ever . . . g . . . get . . . b . . . better? And . . . n . . . now . . . m . . . my . . . em . . . emotions. I . . . w . . . was . . . al . . . always . . . s . . . so . . . in . . . c . . . control . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . em . . . emotions. N . . . now . . . I’m . . . b . . . basically . . . a . . . cr . . . crybaby. And . . . m . . . my . . . wh . . . whole . . . l . . . life’s . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . l . . . lie. B . . . based . . . on . . . m . . . my . . . own . . . st . . . stupidity. I’ve . . . h . . . hurt . . . ev . . . every . . . one . . . in . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life. If . . . you’d . . . a . . . asked . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . old . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . about . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . n . . . now . . . h . . . he’d . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . said . . . h . . . he’d . . . r . . . rather . . . h . . . have . . . d . . . died.”

“Don’t say things like that. Please. So much has happened in the past few months. So many bad things. I wish I could take them back. But you have us. You have all of us. We’ll help you figure it out.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . who . . . I . . . am . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more . . . J . . . John.” Sherlock sniffled as tears tracked down his face.

“You’re William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You’re brilliant. You’re a hero. You’re a caring, loving person. You’re the man I love.”

“A . . . and . . . you’re . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . man . . . I . . . l . . . love. And . . . I . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . b . . . be . . . able . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . function . . . w . . . without . . . you. I . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . have . . . g . . . given . . . up . . . a . . . l . . . long . . . t . . . time . . . a . . . ago. J . . . just . . . pr . . . promise . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . some . . . th . . . thing. W . . . will . . . you . . . J . . . John?”

“Anything.”

“Pr . . . promise . . . you . . . w . . . won’t . . . l . . . leave. I . . . kn . . . know . . . I’m . . . j . . . just . . . a . . . p . . . pitiful . . . wr . . . wreck . . . r . . . right . . . n . . . now. B . . . but . . . I’m . . . tr . . . trying . . . t . . . to . . . g . . . get . . . b . . . better. If . . . o . . . only . . . m . . . my . . . b . . . body . . . and . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind . . . w . . . would . . . st . . . stop . . . b . . . betraying . . . m . . . me.”

“You’re not pitiful, love. You’re just not feeling well. But you’re slowly getting better. Before you know it, we’ll be solving crimes again. We’ll be so happy.” John hugged him closer. “And I will never, ever leave you. Never.”

“I’m . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . w . . . waiting. I . . . h . . . have . .. . t . . . to . . . w . . . wait . . . f . . . for . . . ev . . . every . . . th . . . thing. I . . . j . . . just . . . w . . . want . . . s . . . some . . . h . . . happiness . . . n . . . now.” He shivered violently.

“Chills again?”

“J . . . just . . . n . . . now. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . t . . . tired . . . of . . . th . . . this. I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . better.”

“I know you do.” John touched Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re starting to get hot.”

“You’d . . . n . . . never . . . kn . . . know . . . it,” Sherlock said as he shook. 

John called for Brad and asked him to bring the thermometer and some paracetamol. John pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and wrapped Sherlock in it. “Your temp’s up three degrees.”

“Oh . . . G . . . God . . . J . . . John. Pl . . . please . . . p . . . put . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . bed. I’m . . . fr . . . freezing.” Sherlock was shivering uncontrollably.

“Do you need the loo first?” John asked. 

Sherlock wordlessly nodded as Brad picked him up and took him to the loo. John rushed into their room and got out a thick pair of pyjamas, a heavy robe, two pairs of thick socks, and two extra comforters.

A few minutes later, Brad carried a quaking Sherlock into the room and set him on the bed. Between the two of them, John and Brad quickly got him changed. His skin was peppered with goose pimples, but John could feel the heat coming off of him. They got him in bed and covered him with blankets. Brad went out and brought in the rest of Sherlock’s meds, and John helped him take them. 

“Are you warmer?” John asked.

“N . . . n . . . no. D . . . d . . . dizzy. R . . . room . . . sp . . . spinning,” Sherlock said as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Oh, love,” John said. He’d brought the thermometer in with him and took Sherlock’s temperature. “You’re temp’s up another degree. I can’t believe your fever’s going up so quickly. I don’t like that you’re dizzy too.”

“I’m . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . much . . . of . . . a . . . f . . . fan . . . m . . . myself,” Sherlock said from between chattering teeth.

“Oh, love,” John said. He got a glass of water and the paracetamol and put them on the bedside table. He stripped and got into his pyjamas and laid down beside Sherlock, pulling him next to him. He could feel the heat coming off of Sherlock’s body but he was shaking. 

John called Brad and asked him to bring in a cold, wet flannel. He gently laid it on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“D . . . damn . . . it . . . J . . . John . . . th . . . that’s . . . fr . . . freezing,” Sherlock said, ducking his entire head under the blankets and shaking almost uncontrollably. 

“You’ve got a fever that’s getting higher. We need to bring it down.”

“B . . . but . . . I’m . . . n . . . not . . . h . . . hot. I’m . . . fr . . . freezing.”

“I know. I know you are. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

It was nearly an hour later before Sherlock fell into a troubled sleep. John monitored his temperature for another hour, but it seemed to be holding steady. He finally turned the lights off and settled in to sleep.

Something woke him up a few hours later. He looked at the clock. It was 1:17. He listened, but didn’t hear anything. He shrugged his shoulders and settled to go back to sleep. Then he heard it. A small whimper.

He turned the light on. Sherlock was looking up at him, his eyes glassy. Sweat covered his face; his hair sticking to his forehead. “M . . . Mummy?” he said in a small voice.

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“M . . . Mummy. I’m . . . sc . . . scared. M . . . Mummy?”

“Sherlock, it’s me. It’s John.”

“W . . . won’t . . . you . . . h . . . hold . . . m . . . me . . . M . . . Mummy?” Sherlock sounded unbelievably young. And he couldn’t seem to hear John. “D . . . don’t . . . you . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me . . . M . . . Mummy?” The sadness and loneliness in the voice was heartbreaking.

“It’s okay. It’s alright.” 

Sherlock began to whimper louder. “M . . . Mummy . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me. Sh . . . she . . . w . . . wants . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford.” Sherlock curled into a surprisingly small ball, softly weeping. “I’m . . . b . . . bad. M . . . Mummy . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me . . . b . . . because . . . I’m . . . a . . . b . . . bad . . . p . . . person.”

“Oh, Sherlock. You’re not a bad person. Never.”

Sherlock continued to cry, rocking back and forth, and whimpering for his Mummy.

John took his temperature, and it had gone up drastically. He called for Brad and asked him to run a lukewarm bath. They got Sherlock undressed. He was quaking with cold but was covered in sweat. He moaned loudly when they put him in the water. “M . . . Mummy . . . pl . . . please. I’m . . . c . . . cold. D . . . don’t . . . p . . . put . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . c . . . cold . . . w . . . water.”

Sherlock was shuttering with cold, so much that water began to lap over the sides of the tub. 

“Calm down, Sherlock. Your fever’s gone up. We need to cool you down,” John said, holding him down.

“M . . . Mummy . . . wh . . . why? Am . . . I . . . r . . . really . . . s . . . so . . . b . . . bad? Wh . . . why . . . are . . . you . . . p . . . punishing . . . m . . . me?” Sherlock said as he ceased struggling. He cried quietly as he continued to shiver.

“Shhh, Sherlock. You’re not being punished. This is to help you. You’re sick. We need to get your temperature down.”

Sherlock made no sign that he was hearing anything that John was saying. He continued to cry softly. “M . . . Mummy . . . pl . . . please . . . d . . . don’t . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more.”

“No one’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

“Pl . . . please . . . M . . . Mummy. D . . . don’t . . . h . . . hate . . . m . . . me. I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . I’m . . . b . . . bad.”

“You’re not bad. You’ve never been bad.”

“You . . . l . . . love . . . M . . . My . . . and . . . F . . . Ford. Wh . . . why . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . me?”

Sherlock sounded so lost, so utterly heartbroken that it brought a lump to John’s throat.

The water started to get colder, and John and Brad pulled him out, dried him off, and carried him into the bedroom to get him dressed and back in bed. John took his temperature. The fever was down two degrees. John covered him up and went to get another wet flannel for Sherlock’s forehead. 

When he came back, Sherlock looked at him. John smiled. “Your fever’s down.”

“M . . . Mummy? Pl . . . please. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . g . . . good. D . . . don’t . . . l . . . leave.”

John laid down beside him and pulled him into his arms. “I’ll never leave you. Go to sleep, Sherlock. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” John kissed him on the forehead.

“Pl . . . please . . . M . . . Mummy.”

It was quite awhile before Sherlock fell asleep, still murmuring to his Mummy.

John laid awake, troubled by what Sherlock had said. It had given him a picture of Sherlock’s childhood that no description ever could have. No wonder Sherlock had thought he wasn’t worth loving. Could his family really have ignored him like that? 

Sherlock snuggled into him, and John turned towards him, closing his eyes and hoping Sherlock would be well by morning. 

When he woke up, it was just before the alarm was to go off. John yawned, feeling exhausted. Sherlock was still sleeping. He was a bit cooler but not by much. John decided he’d get Rosie ready for school but wouldn’t bother to get dressed. Hopefully Sherlock would sleep for awhile so John could go back to bed.

He yawned as he came back up in the lift after taking Rosie to the car. He took off his robe and stretched before closing the curtains, closing the door, and slipping back between the covers. 

When he woke, the clock showed that it was 12:45. Sherlock wasn’t beside him. He came suddenly, jarringly awake. He pulled on his robe as he stumbled out into the sitting room. 

Sherlock was sitting wrapped in a blanket with Mrs. Hudson on the sofa watching telly.

“G . . . good . . . m . . . morning . . . J . . . John.” 

“Oh, John. You look a bit frazzled.”

“I woke up and Sherlock was gone. I was just a bit worried.”

“St . . . still . . . f . . . feeling . . . a . . . b . . . bit . . . c . . . cold. B . . . but . . . pr . . . pretty . . . g . . . good . . . oth . . . otherwise. S . . . Sam . . . g . . . got . . . m . . . me . . . up. I . . . w . . . wanted . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . let . . . you . . . sl . . . sleep.”

“Thanks, love,” John said as he kissed him good morning. 

“You’re . . . w . . . welcome. Wh . . . why . . . d . . . don’t . . . you . . . t . . . take . . . a . . . n . . . nice . . . l . . . long . . . h . . . hot . . . sh . . . shower . . . and . . . r . . . relax?”

“I’ll make you some lunch.” 

“That’s great. Thanks.”

John went back into the bedroom and quickly made the bed. He took a long shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth. When he came out, he was met with the wonderful smell of Mrs. Hudson’s lunch. Sherlock was already settled at the table. Mrs. Hudson told him to come and sit. Together the three had a lovely lunch and lingered over tea and biscuits. 

Mrs. Hudson left soon afterwards to run a few errands.

John cleared the table and started the dishes. Sherlock continued to sip on his tea. 

“Are . . . you . . . o . . . okay . . . J . . . John?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m fine. Why?”

“You . . . sl . . . slept . . . in . . . s . . . so . . . l . . . late.” 

“I was up with you for quite awhile last night. Your fever got pretty bad, and you were delirious.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . re . . . member . . . a . . . anything . . . a . . . after . . . I . . . f . . . fell . . . a . . . asleep. D . . . did . . . I . . . s . . . say . . . a . . . anything?”

John turned to look at Sherlock. “Yes, you did.” He turned around and sat down beside him, taking his hand in his. “It was quite disturbing actually.”

Sherlock looked shocked. “Wh . . . what . . . d . . . did . . . I . . . s . . . say?”

“It was like you were a child. You were begging your Mother to hold you, to love you. You kept saying you must have been a very bad person if your own mother couldn’t love you.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “I . . . I . . . g . . . guess . . . it’s . . . b . . . been . . . on . . . m . . . my . . . m . . . mind.”

“It broke my heart to hear you talk like that. To think that you really thought that.”

“I’m . . . s . . . sorry . . . f . . . for . . . u . . . upsetting . . . you.”

“Never mind about me. I’m concerned about you.”

“I’m . . . w . . . working . . . on . . . it. I . . . m . . . made . . . a . . . f . . . fool . . . of . . . m . . . myself . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents. I . . . h . . . hurt . . . th . . . them. And . . . I’ve . . . h . . . hurt . . . m . . . myself . . . s . . . since . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . a . . . ch . . . child. I . . . d . . . didn’t . . . m . . . mean . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hurt . . . you . . . t . . . too.”

“It’s alright.”

“I . . . t . . . talked . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents . . . t . . . this . . . m . . . morning. It’s . . . awk . . . w . . . ward. I . . . th . . . think . . . it’s . . . a . . . always . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . t . . . to . . . act . . . a . . . around . . . th . . . them.”

“I understand it would be awkward. I’m so sorry this happened to you. I wish I could change it for you. I was never close with my father but my mum loved me. I know she did. And she made me feel it everyday.” 

“I . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . liked . . . th . . . that. A . . . after . . . M . . . My . . . l . . . left . . . f . . . for . . . sch . . . school . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . l . . . lonely. F . . . Ford . . . d . . . didn’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . pl . . . play . . . w . . . with . . . m . . . me . . . m . . . much. H . . . he . . . w . . . was . . . al . . . always . . . w . . . with . . . M . . . Mummy . . . and . . . D . . . Daddy . . . or . . . r . . . reading. A . . . all . . . I . . . h . . . had . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . my . . . d . . . dog . . . R . . . Redbeard. It . . . br . . . broke . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . heart . . . wh . . . when . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . died. I . . . l . . . learned . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . b . . . by . . . my . . . s . . . self. Th . . . that’s . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . st . . . started . . . sp . . . spending . . . d . . . days . . . w . . . without . . . s . . . saying . . . any . . . th . . . thing. And . . . g . . . going . . . w . . . without . . . f . . . food.”

“Oh, love. I’m sorry. No child should feel unloved. No child. What about your birthdays and Christmas?”

“Th . . . there . . . w . . . were . . . pr . . . presents . . . b . . . but . . . I . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . had . . . a . . . b . . . birth . . . d . . . day . . . p . . . party. Th . . . there . . . w . . . wasn’t . . . any . . . one . . . t . . . to . . . in . . . vite. It . . . w . . . was . . . h . . . hard . . . gr . . . growing . . . up . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that. B . . . but . . . you . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . happy. I . . . l . . . love . . . you.” 

“I love you too. And I promise you that you’ll never feel unloved ever again.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . f . . . feel . . . u . . . unloved. N . . . not . . . n . . . now.”

John smiled. “I’m glad.” John kissed Sherlock, long and hard. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He looked into Sherlock’s kaleidoscope eyes, mesmerized.

He carried Sherlock to the sofa and sat down beside him, cuddling him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Rosie's party.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie's birthday party!! But there'll be lots of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a bit. But here's an extra-long chapter. There'll be highs and lows. Be prepared.

Later in the afternoon, Sherlock’s mobile rang. 

“H . . . hello?”

“Hi, mate!” he heard Greg say. “How you doing?”

“G . . . getting . . . by.”

“You were right. Molly confirmed that the victim died of death cap mushroom poisoning.”

“R . . . really?”

“You bet. And Dimmock had his people goes through the garbage in her flat. At the bottom, hidden in lettuce leaves, were the remains of the mushrooms. In the dishwasher, there was a knife, a fork, and a dinner plate that tested positive for them as well. There wasn’t any suicide note. She has several appointments booked for the days after her death. Her planner showed that she had a date the night after her death, and she had plans with her sister. We’re sure it’s not a suicide. It’s definitely a murder. But we just don’t know who.”

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. “D . . . did . . . sh . . . she . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . any . . . o . . . other . . . f . . . family?”

“Um . . . parents in Hertfordshire. Little brother at University of Edinburgh.”

“A . . . any . . . f . . . financial . . . pr . . . problems?”

“Some credit card debt, not much. Bit of a car loan left to pay on. But that’s it.”

“Wh . . . what . . . a . . . about . . . th . . . the . . . s . . . sister?”

“What about her?”

“A . . . any . . . pr . . . problems . . . b . . . between . . . th . . . them?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I . . . it . . . m . . . might . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . worth . . . l . . . looking . . . in . . . into.”

“You know something?”

“J . . . just . . . s . . . suspicions. A . . . and . . . a . . . f . . . feeling.”

“Your feelings are better than most people’s absolute truths. I’ll pass that along to Dimmock. I’ll let you know how it goes. Thanks Sherlock.” 

“T . . . talk . . . t . . . to . . . you . . . l . . . later.”

“Greg?” John asked.

“Yes. It . . . w . . . was . . . m . . . mushrooms.”

“And you think it was murder?”

“S . . . so . . . d . . . do . . . D . . . Dimmock . . . and . . . G . . . Greg.”

“And you think it was the sister?”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . why. I’ve . . . j . . . just . . . g . . . got . . . a . . . f . . . feeling. G . . . Greg . . . s . . . said . . . m . . . my . . . f . . . feelings . . . are . . . b . . . better . . . th . . . than . . . m . . . most . . . p . . . people’s . . . ab . . . absolute . . . tr . . . truths.”

John smiled. “Well, he’s right about that.”

“Ex . . . except . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . my . . . own . . . l . . . life.”

John hugged Sherlock. “I’m proud of you. You’re back to being a detective again.”

“M . . . Molly . . . f . . . figured . . . it . . . out . . . b . . . before . . . m . . . me.”

“You knew it though. And once they investigate the sister, I’m sure it’ll turn out she did it.”

“M . . . maybe.”

“I was thinking maybe we could go out and look for some presents for Rosie for her birthday. Maybe have some lunch.”

“O . . . okay. Th . . . that . . . s . . . sounds . . . f . . . fine.”

They spent the rest of the morning going from store to store. They picked up a few things, but they couldn’t find the perfect present. John was feeling a little desperate. He knew that the party that Mycroft was planning was going to blow Rosie’s mind. He really appreciated all the work that Mycroft was doing to make Rosie’s birthday special, but he also felt a bad that he couldn’t give such a great party himself. He knew it wasn’t really right to feel this way. Mycroft was doing it because he considered Rosie his niece and wanted to give her a great experience. John knew that. He just had no idea how he was going to give her a great present. 

“L . . . let’s . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . H . . . Harrod’s,” Sherlock said.

“You sure?” John asked. 

“S . . . sure. Wh . . . why . . . n . . . not?”

“It seems a bit too high class for someone like me.”

“N . . . nonsense.”

“I’m not dressed nearly well enough to shop there.”

“A . . . again . . . n . . . nonsense.”

John felt uncomfortable from the moment he walked through the door. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to know his way around the store intimately. He gave John directions to the electronics department. 

“What are we looking for?” John asked as he wheeled Sherlock into the department.

“R . . . Rosie . . . m . . . mentioned . . . a . . . l . . . laptop.”

“And she also said she knew it was too expensive.”

“R . . . Rosie . . . d . . . deserves . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . best. Th . . . the . . . v . . . very . . . b . . . best.”

“Of course, she does. I . . . I just can’t afford it.”

Sherlock chose to ignore what John said and motioned over to the laptops. The best laptops in the world lined the shelves. Sherlock looked at each one. A woman approached them. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Wh . . . what . . . are . . . th . . . the . . . sp . . . specifi . . . c . . . cations . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . this . . . m . . . model?” Sherlock asked, pointing to one of the nicest models there. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said, looking down her nose at Sherlock. “These are quite complicated devices.” She spoke slowly, as if Sherlock wouldn’t be able to understand her if she didn’t. “We have simpler, less complicated devices in the children’s department.”

“Excuse me?” John said, his face turning red. 

“Yes, sir?”

“My boyfriend asked about this model. If you can’t give him the answers, should we ask your supervisor?”

The woman looked flustered. “Sir . . . I . . .”

“Th . . . this . . . m . . . model,” Sherlock said.

She cleared her throat and answered all of his questions. 

“Th . . . that . . . s . . . sounds . . . a . . . accept . . . able. W . . . we’ll . . . t . . . take . . . one.”

John looked at the price tag and blanched. “Sherlock, this is . . .”

“R . . . Rosie’s . . . pr . . . present . . . fr . . . from . . . h . . . her . . . P . . . Papa . . . and . . . Un . . . Uncle . . . Sh . . . Sherlock.”

John nodded his head and said, “Thank you, love.”

Sherlock pulled out his wallet and handed John his credit card. Sherlock insisted they stop in the girls’ department and pick out a dress for Rosie to wear to her party. John picked out a lovely one in green, Rosie’s favourite colour. 

“And . . . w . . . what . . . a . . . about . . . a . . . c . . . curling . . . iron? S . . . so . . . you . . . c . . . can . . . d . . . do . . . h . . . her . . . h . . . hair?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” John asked a clerk where he could find them. When they left the store, it was just lunch time. 

“L . . . let’s . . . st . . . stop . . . f . . . for . . . l . . . lunch.” 

“Alright. Any place in particular?” 

“N . . . no.”

The two stopped at a small café and ate a simple lunch of soup and sandwiches before heading home. John hid Rosie’s presents and made them each a cup of tea. They watched telly until Dr. Cooper came for his appointment. 

Afterwards, Sherlock and John had some tea and biscuits, and Sherlock asked John to read to him from one of his forensics books. Sherlock was feeling well that day, just a slight headache. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John read, occasionally asking questions. 

By the time Rosie came home, they’d gotten through a few chapters, and Sherlock had been able to answer most of the questions at the end of each chapter. Sherlock felt very satisfied with himself. 

Rosie was excited. She’d given out the invitations to her friends that day and had explained to them how her uncle was giving her an unbelievable party. 

“We got you a nice dress for the party. And I bought a curling iron so I can do your hair.”

“Really? Wow!” She smiled and hugged John and then Sherlock. 

John went into their bedroom and came back with the dress. 

“Oh, it’s so pretty!!” Rosie said as she ran towards her father. “I love the colour and all the frills. It’s beautiful!!”

“Beautiful dress for a beautiful girl,” John said, kissing her on the cheek. 

“You’re . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . look . . . gr . . . great . . . in . . . it,” Sherlock said, smiling. 

“Let’s take it up and put it in your closet,” John said. 

“And I can show it to Aurora.”

When they went upstairs, Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He was happy for Rosie. Really happy. She was an incredibly sweet girl and deserved a very happy birthday. 

But he couldn’t help remembering his own birthday parties. There would be a cake with dinner and some presents. Usually some books and chemistry equipment. He had always appreciated them and thought that his parents had decided to at least put up a pretense that they cared. Ford always had big parties with lots of children. But, then again, Ford had always easily made friends. 

Mycroft’s parties were small and included, what he considered, “colleagues.” After he started boarding school, Mycroft started to make connections with the sons of some of the most powerful people in the country. He literally looked down his nose at them, thinking them all boorish and stupid. But he knew if he wanted to become a powerful man himself, he’d have to tolerate people like them. He organized his own parties. And his parents gave him gifts of top brand-name clothing and accoutrements. 

Personally, Mycroft found the whole idea of interacting with people he thought beneath him intellectually extremely tedious. But he learned to smile, make small talk, and pretend to be interested in whatever banality they wanted to talk about. Even at a young age, Mycroft had gotten the idea of networking down to a science. 

 

Sherlock remembered the first birthday party his mother tried to give him. It was the first year he started school. She had asked him who he wanted to invite. He had no idea. Even then, the other children picked on him. He had learned, years later, that she had invited every single person in his class. She decorated the house, bought balloons, a huge cake, and set up games. Not one child came. Sherlock wasn’t disappointed. He hadn’t expected anyone to come. But he could see that his mother was angry. He went back to reading his book and tried pretending that being rejected so early in life wasn’t that bad. By then, Mycroft was away at school so he lay in bed that night, quietly sobbing, with Redbeard his only comfort.

 

The next year, Mummy had tried again, inviting everyone in Sherlock’s class. Again no one came, and birthday parties were never mentioned in connection with Sherlock again. 

 

He’d spend the day at school and come home to some forced gaiety. Mummy would try for a few years, putting up balloons and making him wear a party hat. But soon, it just became a cake with dinner and a few brightly wrapped presents after that. Mycroft would be away, so his “parties” just consisted of Mummy, Daddy, and Ford. 

 

Sherlock didn’t recall being invited to anyone’s birthday party either. Sometimes the whole class would be buzzing about an upcoming party and show each other their invitations. But Sherlock never received one. One day, just to play a trick, he went up to the most popular girl in class and loudly thanked her for the invitation to her party.

 

She just looked at him for a moment with a look of surprise. Then she laughed in his face. “I never invited you to my party, Sherlock Holmes. Who’d want you at their party?”

 

He’d smiled wickedly and said, “It appears you’re even stupider than you look. Don’t you know sarcasm when you hear it? I wouldn’t go to your party if you paid me.” 

 

She had turned red, and he had walked off in satisfaction.

 

But late that night, when he was lying in bed trying to sleep, it didn’t feel satisfying. He knew that there was a part of him that really wanted her to invite him. He wanted to belong. He wanted to fit in with the other children. But he couldn’t. They hated him. And there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to fix that. 

 

So, school became just another thing to endure. For the most part, he found it boring and repetitive. He did the work because he was expected to and for no other reason. He rarely needed to study very hard as the work came to him naturally, especially science and maths. He enjoyed the more gruesome side of history and liked the precision of the English language. His grandmother was French so he did very well in French. And he excelled at music. He was the top student in the school, in fact. 

 

But it also bothered his teachers when he corrected them, which was often. He often found himself shifted to the back of the classroom and ignored. 

 

It hadn’t been an easy childhood. And the teen years . . . He came home with black eyes and bruises all over his body time after time. There was nothing to be done, the headmistress had told Mummy and Daddy. She looked with contempt at him while telling his parents that he was too smart for his own good and needed to keep quiet. That people didn’t like his attitude. He coolly looked up at her and deduced that she was having an affair with the gymnastics coach and was pocketing money from the cafeteria. When he said so, she turned red and ordered him out of the office. 

 

He thought, somewhat naively, that things would change at uni. People his own age would be more mature. But he quickly found out that wasn’t true. His housemates despised him. So, he lost himself in his studies. Until, at a house party, he was introduced to the seven-percent solution. 

 

He knew that Mycroft would flip if he found out, but taking cocaine gave him so much energy. He felt so alert, and it gave him hypersensitive senses. He could take it and go days without eating or sleeping. He studied constantly to pass his courses at the top of his class. 

But when he came down . . . he felt awful. He grew impossibly thin. His stomach hurt whenever he even considered food and nausea troubled him. He would feel feverish and his head would ache. When he’d look into the mirror, he could see the dark circles under his eyes. 

But the highs became so great for his work that he borrowed and begged for money from Mycroft, his parents, and even classmates, who gave him money in exchange for tutoring or helping them cheat. It was near the end of his degree when Mycroft visited unexpectedly. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow at the mess of Sherlock’s room. 

Sherlock reluctantly let him in. Mycroft used his umbrella to clear a chair of dirty clothes. “How . . . pungent,” Mycroft said.

“What do you want?” Sherlock said. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose, then became suddenly concerned that this would betray him to Mycroft.

“Can’t a brother visit a brother?” Mycroft asked, smiling.

“I’m doing fine. Exams are in a few weeks. Graduation’s soon.”

“Yes, quite.” Mycroft looked at him closely, his eyes going wide. “What the devil have you been doing to yourself?” He stood up.

“What do you mean? I’m fine.”

“You look like a skeleton. Are you not eating at all? Or sleeping? The skin under your eyes is midnight black.”

“I’m fine, Mycroft. Just up late studying.”

“I think not, Little Brother.” Mycroft’s hand streaked out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “You’re hot. Are you ill?”

“Let go of me!” Sherlock tried to pull his arm from Mycroft’s grip, but Mycroft turned out to be incredibly strong. Instead he pulled the sleeve of Sherlock’s dress shirt up. The track marks were glaringly obvious on his pale skin. Sherlock managed to pull his arm away and backed up.

“How dare you?” Mycroft said, his eyes and voice colder than ice. “How dare you become a common junkie? You’ve been given so many opportunities. This is one of the best universities in the country, in the world. And you’re throwing it all up in the air to become a degenerate.”

“I’m not a degenerate, Mycroft. I can control it. It helps me study.”

“What is it? Heroin?”

“I’m not a heroin addict, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just a little coke. It’s not all the time. It helps with the work.” 

“So that’s what the money was for. I’m cutting you off. And you’re going to rehab.” 

“I’m not going to rehab, Mycroft.”

“Yes, you are. I have several very large men who’ll make sure of it.”

“I’ve got exams in a few weeks. I’m almost done my degree. You are not doing this to me.” 

“You’re going to have a roommate until your exams are over. Someone who goes everywhere you go. You’ll have no more access to your cocaine.” He picked up Sherlock’s telephone and made a phone call. 

“I’m not having a babysitter. I’ll be fine. I need to finish school.”

“You will have someone watching you. Or you’ll be going to rehab today.” 

Sherlock knew that Mycroft was incredibly angry and wouldn’t let him talk his way out of it. But he took it as a challenge that he could lose his babysitter and score when he needed it. 

Mycroft lectured him for another hour and ordered dinner, sitting and watching him eat it. After dinner was finished, a knock sounded on the door.

Sherlock opened the door to a very tall, very wide man. “Mr. Holmes?” a deep voice asked.

“Ah, excellent,” Mycroft said. “Mr. James, such a pleasure to see you again.” 

“And you as well, Mr. Holmes. This is the gentleman I’m to chaperone?”

“My brother, Sherlock. Keep him in your company at all times. He has exams in two weeks. Make sure he’s clean until then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock stood at the door, his mouth open. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, as he picked up his umbrella. “Can’t say it’s been a pleasure but good luck on your exams.” 

“W . . . wait, you can’t do this, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I believe I can. And I just have. Mr. James, I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Mycroft closed the door behind him. 

Sherlock stared at the huge man standing in his room. “Um,” he said, touching the back of his neck. “I . . . I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”

“Go ahead, sir. I’ll just be sitting here. I have the night shift. My partner, Mr. Jones, will be by in the morning.” 

Sherlock sat down at his computer. He decided to put it all out of his mind and work on his paper. By the time he’d finished and printed it out, it was close to midnight. And he wanted a hit. Badly. 

He put his paper in his school bag and turned the computer off. He stood stretching and yawning. He had a little coke left, hidden in the loo. “Think I’ll turn in,” he said. 

Mr. James stood up and moved to the loo first. “Sorry. I’ll just be a minute.” 

Sherlock thought Mr. James surely couldn’t know. He heard the toilet flush and the water running in the sink. He ducked into the loo as soon as the bigger man opened the door. 

Sure enough, his stash was gone, flushed away. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

And so it began. Sherlock couldn’t get away from Mr. James or Mr. Jones no matter how hard he tried. Molly noticed them and asked Sherlock why they were always following him. Not wanting to ruin his only friendship, Sherlock told her that they were in one of his classes and he was tutoring them. 

He went through withdrawal but forced himself through it, determined to finish the year at the top of his class.

When exams came around, he aced every one of them. And, sure enough, Mycroft and his men were waiting for Sherlock as he came out of the examination hall. With much protest, Sherlock was dragged off to rehab. He put in his time, pretending to cooperate in order to be able to get out before graduation. 

On the day he got out, he scored, and it led to a downhill spiral. 

John came downstairs and Sherlock shook his head, clearing his mind of the memories. 

“You okay? You looked pretty lost in thought just then.” 

“J . . . just . . . th . . . thinking.”

“Anything interesting?”

“N . . . no.” Sherlock knew if he told John about his past experiences with birthdays that John would feel bad for him. And he didn’t want that. “W . . . we’ve . . . g . . . got . . . a . . . v . . . very . . . ex . . . excited . . . g . . . girl . . . d . . . don’t . . . we?” he said as he smiled at John.

John smiled back. “Indeed. I don’t know how she’ll sleep the rest of the week. She’s at the bouncing up and down stage of excitement now.”

“D . . . do . . . you . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . in . . . invite . . . m . . . my . . . p . . . parents . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party?”

“Yeah. That’d be nice. And I’ll invite Molly and Greg. I’ll give Harry a call, but she probably won’t come.”

“You . . . n . . . never . . . kn . . . know.”

“I don’t know if I want her there. If she gets drunk, who knows what she’ll say? I don’t want her to ruin Rosie’s birthday.”

“I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . M . . . Mycroft . . . w . . . won’t . . . h . . . have . . . dr . . . drink . . . a . . . available . . . at . . . a . . . ch . . . children’s . . . p . . . party.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll see.”

When Sherlock called his parents, they were delighted to be invited. Mummy promised they’d be there and would bring a lovely present for Rosie. Sherlock gave her some ideas of what Rosie liked. He was kind of relieved actually. This week’s topic of conversation for all of his phone calls was set. He didn’t have to think of safe topics. 

As the week continued, Rosie got more and more excited. John was struggling to get her to sit down and do her homework. He had to find things for her to do to keep her mind occupied. 

Sherlock kept to himself, not wanting to interfere with John and Rosie. Rosie needed John when she was home and Sherlock knew that. He didn’t mind. He had John to himself for a lot of the day and after she went to bed. But as the week progressed, he noticed something strange about John. He became quiet. Not talking to Sherlock for hours. Sherlock wondered if he’d done something wrong. But he was afraid to bring it up. 

Sherlock’s health seemed to be on an upswing. There was at least one symptom a day, sometimes more, but not all at once. He hoped he could get away with a slight headache or a mild fever for the day of the party. He certainly didn’t want John distracted by him when he should be enjoying Rosie’s party. 

John would fall into bed exhausted each night. Sherlock didn’t ask for any touching exercises, knowing John was distracted and tired. He wanted to touch John but knew he needed his sleep. He’d lay awake thinking about things, his mind sometimes going places where it shouldn’t. He wanted to talk to John about some things but thought he shouldn’t. John’s mind was occupied with something else. 

He longed to have some time with John uninterrupted by therapy sessions. He just wanted to lay in bed all day with him, feeling his warmth and surrounded by his scent, listening to him talk. But he didn’t think John would agree.

John didn’t seem to notice that Sherlock was keeping to himself. He remained quiet, not speaking much to Sherlock, though he was his regular self to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock didn’t ask him what was wrong, thinking John would tell him if he wanted him to know. 

By the end of the week, Sherlock was feeling neglected. But he was determined not to complain. Instead of speaking, John was grunting yes or no in most instances when Sherlock was speaking to him. So Sherlock stopped asking him questions.

The day of the party dawned lovely and clear. There was a bit of a nip in the air, but the weather person had said it would warm up. Rosie was up at the crack of dawn and came running into their room, jumping on the bed. 

“It’s my birthday, Papa!!! It’s my birthday party today!!!” she yelled. 

John and Sherlock shot straight up in bed, scared out of their wits. 

“Yes, it’s your birthday!! Happy birthday, Rosie,” John laughed as he hugged her and pulled her into bed with them. 

“H . . . happy . . . b . . . birth . . . d . . . day . . . R . . . Rosie,” Sherlock said as he kissed her cheek. 

“How long until the party?” Rosie asked. 

“Not for hours yet. It’s only six o’clock in the morning. The party doesn’t start until noon.”

“What are we gonna do until then?”

“Um. Breakfast, a bath, doing your hair. But for right now, let’s just sleep for a little while. It’s too early to get up. Besides, if you get a bit more sleep you won’t get tired this afternoon or tonight at the party.”

“I’ll try.”

Rosie laid between them. She twisted and turned and sighed. John gave up after awhile and got up. He took her back up to her room and laid down with her to try and get a bit more sleep.

Sherlock knew John had done it so Sherlock could get some more sleep, but he hadn’t said anything to Sherlock at all. Was John angry at him? He hadn’t thought he’d done anything. He wanted to ask him about it but didn’t want to trigger an argument today of all days. 

He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep but was troubled by the thought that John was mad at him. He called for Sam as soon as he arrived and got ready for the day. He dressed simply but warmly. The chills were starting, his head was pounding, and he felt like he was going to be sick to his stomach. He asked Sam to not let John know. He took some paracetamol and antacid. 

John and Rosie came downstairs a few hours later. John was yawning and Rosie very excited. 

“D . . . did . . . you . . . g . . . get . . . s . . . some . . . m . . . more . . . sl . . . sleep?” Sherlock asked. 

John grunted something that Sherlock couldn’t make out. Rosie sat down at the table. “I got a bit more,” she said, happily. 

“G . . . good . . . f . . . for . . . you,” Sherlock said. “H . . . how . . . ex . . . excited . . . are . . . you?” he asked, smiling. 

“Soooooo excited!!” she squealed. 

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . bl . . . blame . . . you.” 

John was frying eggs and bacon and had toast on the go. 

Sherlock ate breakfast as John talked to Rosie. He picked at his food. Even the thought of food was making him feel nauseated. John didn’t seem to be noticing anyway. He usually kept a careful eye on everything that Sherlock ate. He wordlessly took Sherlock’s plate and emptied in the bin before taking Rosie in to get her bath. 

Sherlock sat in his wheelchair, feeling somewhat abandoned and troubled. For the life of him, he didn’t know what he’d done to upset John. 

After John got Rosie ready, he called for the van. Rosie looked absolutely beautiful in her green dress, with her hair carefully curled. John muttered about burning his fingers twice trying to get her hair just right. 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Rosie said with a sad look on her face. 

“Don’t be silly,” John said, smiling. “You look wonderful.” 

“Do I?”

“Absolutely,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“Do you think I look nice, Uncle Sherlock?”

“A . . . ab . . . solutely . . . b . . . beautiful,” he said, smiling. 

She smiled and thanked him.

When the van arrived, they got in with Mrs. Hudson and were off to Mycroft’s. 

When they arrived at Mycroft’s, John got Sherlock out of the back of the van. Rosie ran towards the open door.

“My, how lovely you look, Rosie,” Mycroft said, as he watched her come towards him. 

“Thank you, Uncle Mycroft,” she said as she hugged him. 

“Come on in. None of your guests have arrived yet, but Mummy and Daddy are here.”

She smiled as she walked into the house. He introduced her to a young man who would be taking photographs of all the events.

Mrs. Hudson fussed over Sherlock as they walked towards the door. 

“E . . . every . . . th . . . thing . . . a . . . all . . . r . . . ready . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party?” Sherlock asked. 

“Indeed, Little Brother.” Mycroft greeted Mrs. Hudson and John. John returned to the van to get out the presents as Mrs. Hudson pushed Sherlock into the house. 

Sherlock was freezing. His head was pounding. He hoped that there would be tea to settle his stomach and warm him up. 

“I can’t thank you enough for this party, Mycroft,” John said as he shook Mycroft’s hand. 

“You’re more than welcome, John. I hope that Rosie will be pleased.”

“She was up at 6 a.m. this morning, jumping on the bed. I’d say she’s excited,” John said. 

Mrs. Hudson wheeled Sherlock into the kitchen as Mycroft and John talked. Mummy and Daddy were sipping tea. 

“Sherlock! Martha!” Mummy said. “Welcome to the party. Can I get you some tea?”

“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Hudson said. Sherlock nodded. He hoped that his mum would make it extra hot. He burned his tongue a bit but the warm liquid warmed him. He knew he’d have to wait until he could get Mycroft alone to ask for some more paracetamol. 

Mummy, Daddy, and Mrs. Hudson talked with each other, catching up. Mycroft and John were talking. And Rosie was jumping up and down with excitement. Sherlock was feeling left out but didn’t say anything. 

As each of her friends arrived, Rosie would run to the door to let them in. She’d bring them out to the kitchen and introduce them to her family. John greeted each girl by name, having known all of them for a few years. Then Rosie introduced them to her Uncle Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft, Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly (after they arrived), and her grandparents, Mrs. Hudson and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. The first time she did this, Mummy welled up, very happy that Rosie considered them part of her family. She hugged the little girl and thanked her, saying it was an honour to be considered her grandmother. Daddy also hugged her, proudly smiling. 

Each girl smiled brightly at all of them, but Sherlock could see the uneasiness some of them had around him. There was a mixture of pity and a little fear in their eyes when they were introduced to him, especially after he spoke. Only one of them put out her hand to shake his. But she quickly pulled away after a very short handshake. 

Sherlock pretended not to care and smiled at each one. But, inside, it hurt. It felt like he was back at school with the children who so hated him. Sherlock asked Mycroft to wheel him around to the back of the table so he could hide behind the others, though he told Mycroft that he wanted to just lean his arms against the table. “Let the normal people be seen,” he thought. “The freaks should stay in the back, unseen and unheard.” 

Sherlock joined in the conversation every so often so that no one would notice that he wasn’t saying much. 

After all of the girls had arrived, Mycroft stood up and said, “Young ladies, I believe you’ve all arrived. Now for the first part of the celebrations.” Seemingly out of nowhere, Anthea was standing at Mycroft’s side, the ever-present mobile in her hands.

“Ladies, if you’ll join me,” she said, ushering them out of the kitchen.

They all heard oohs and aahs coming from another room. Twenty minutes later, the girls all traipsed back through the kitchen dressed in riding gear, from helmets to riding boots. Each of them was wearing a wide smile. 

“How did you know everyone’s sizes, Uncle Mycroft?” Rosie asked. 

“Oh, I had Anthea contact everyone’s parents. For riding, you should always have well-fitted clothes.” He and Anthea led the troop out towards the back and opened the door. The backyard wasn’t a yard at all but a huge pasture. And standing, about a hundred metres from the house, was a paddock. Several horses were standing in the fenced-off circle. The girls squealed and clapped their hands. 

Anthea moved to stand in front of them. “Now girls, I know you’re excited but try not to yell or make too much noise. You don’t want to spook the horses.” She led them over to the paddock. 

Everyone from the kitchen gathered outside the house. Mycroft had set up an approximation of the kitchen there so everyone could watch the girls ride. 

“Is . . . th . . . that . . . T . . . Tudor . . . R . . . Rose?” Sherlock asked quietly from the door.

Mycroft, who was pushing Sherlock, said, “Indeed. Twenty-seven years old. She’s still just as gentle as she was.” 

Sherlock remembered when they’d first gotten Tudor Rose. Sherlock was 18, a thin, lonely young man getting ready for uni. That summer was particularly hard for him. He had felt completely lost. But something about the foal had touched him. He got close to the horse as it grew. He loved riding her, and he looked forward to coming home so he could be with her.

Mycroft had gotten the young horse when he was in his late twenties. “All the better to fit in with the in-crowd, as it were,” he had told Sherlock. As with most things, Mycroft proved to be a very good rider. Sherlock had taken to riding occasionally when he was home. He and Tudor Rose would wander the countryside by themselves, and Sherlock found a certain peace in doing so that he’d never experienced before. He hadn’t felt as alone as he always did when he was with her. It had been the same as it was when he was with Redbeard. Tudor Rose didn’t judge him, didn’t hate him. In fact, she seemed quite fond of him. He always brought her sugar cubes and apples. 

He hadn’t seen her for years. After Mycroft had bought the behemoth of a house he now lived in, he’d moved Tudor Rose with him. Since Sherlock didn’t visit often, he gradually forgot to inquire about Tudor Rose and had assumed she had died. 

But there she stood, big as life. Her muzzle was grey, and she wasn’t as sleek as she’d once been, but there was no mistaking that it was her. 

Oh, how he longed to get on her back and ride away, back out to the country, just the two of them. “There’s one other thing I’ll never be able to do,” he thought bitterly, as he pulled his coat tighter around him. 

“Perhaps you can have a visit with her when the girls are done,” Mycroft said.

“I . . . th . . . think . . . I’d . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that . . . v . . . very . . . m . . . much.”

The group was quiet, sipping tea and watching the girls enjoying themselves. There were several riding instructors, one for each girl, who took the girls to acquaint them with the horses they’d be riding and giving them safety lectures. All of the girls were very eager to try and soon they were up on their horses being led around by the instructors. Rosie was smiling widely and waved at everyone every time she went by. 

“She has a good seat,” Mycroft told John. “Maybe she could come by and ride more often.”

“You think so?” John asked.

“Of course. I don’t get to ride all that often, and it would do my horses well to get some more exercise.” 

“Are all of them yours?”

“Oh, no. Just two of the ones the girls are riding on. And the older horse. She’s quite old. Sherlock and I used to ride her.”

“Sherlock rode? I can’t imagine it.”

Sherlock winced when he heard John say that. 

“He’s a very good rider.”

“W . . . was,” Sherlock said, under his breath.

John didn’t even look over at Sherlock before he changed the subject.

Sherlock was in misery. His head was pounding, and the chills were getting worse. He felt like pouring the hot tea down the front of him rather than drinking it, hoping it might warm him up. When John had sat down to talk to Mummy and Daddy, Sherlock waved Mycroft over.

“M . . . My . . . c . . . could . . . you . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . loo?”

“Of course. Let’s get you inside.”

Mycroft wheeled Sherlock into the house and to the loo. Sherlock had drunk several cups of tea in the short time he’d been there and really needed a bit of relief.

Mycroft lifted him onto the toilet and left him to do his business. Sherlock leaned back against the loo. It was warmer in here and he tried to will the warmth into his bones. But it wasn’t really working. A knock came on the door a few minutes later.

“I’m . . . d . . . done . . . M . . . Mycroft.”

Mycroft entered and helped him back into his wheelchair. “You don’t seem well, Brother,” he said.

“Damn,” Sherlock thought. “I should have known he’d see through me.”

“N . . . nothing . . . r . . . really. J . . . just . . . a . . . h . . . headache.” 

“Should I get John?”

“N . . . no. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . bother . . . h . . . him. L . . . let . . . h . . .him . . . en . . . joy . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . b . . . birthday. I . . . w . . . will . . . t . . . take . . . s . . . some . . . p . . . para . . . c . . . etamol . . . th . . . though.”

“Of course.” Mycroft got a bottle out of the medicine cabinet and shook a few out into Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock dry swallowed them and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt Mycroft’s warm hand against his forehead. 

“You’re cold and clammy. It’s far more than a simple headache.”

“I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . al . . . right. It’s . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . d . . . day . . . and . . . I . . . w . . . won’t . . . r . . . ruin . . . it.”

“There are several hot water bottles upstairs. Let me get them and put them under your clothes like you did the other night.” 

“Th . . . that . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . be . . . gr . . . great.”

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was finally starting to feel warm. He sighed.

“Better?”

“M . . . much.”

“Let’s get back outside before people start to come looking for us.” 

They rejoined the group and Sherlock accepted another hot cup of tea from Mummy.

The girls rode for over an hour before Anthea went to retrieve them for the second part of the party. While she gathered them up and got them in the house to change and get washed up, Mummy and Daddy led everyone back into the kitchen. Mycroft wheeled Sherlock over to the paddock. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” the trainer said.

“Can you bring Tudor Rose over? My brother would like to visit with her.”

Tudor Rose recognized Sherlock even from across the paddock. She trotted happily over to him and put her head down to sniff the top of his head. He smiled and rubbed her forehead.

“H . . . hello . . . g . . . girl. G . . . good . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . you.” He petted her for a while. “W . . . wish . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . g . . . get . . . on . . . you . . . and . . . r . . . ride . . . away. Pr . . . probably . . . b . . . both . . . of . . . us . . . are . . . t . . . too . . . ch . . . changed . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . that . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . happen.” Sherlock felt his emotions roiling under the surface. 

Sensing it, Tudor Rose laid her head against his. He found tears swimming in his eyes as he leaned his forehead against her face. She neighed quietly. He rubbed her soft as velvet nose. 

“Are you alright, Sherlock?”

“Yeah,” he said, wiping at his face. He patted her one more time. “L . . . let’s . . . g . . . get . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party.”

As he wheeled Sherlock back to the house, Mycroft said, “Is there something wrong between you and John? Have you had an argument?”

“Damn,” Sherlock thought to himself. “I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know. W . . . we . . . h . . . haven’t . . . f . . . fought. H . . . he’s . . . b . . . been . . . qu . . . quiet . . . th . . . this . . . w . . . week.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over it,” Mycroft said in a voice that Sherlock knew well, a voice that implied that John certainly would bloody get over it and very quickly.

They joined the others in the kitchen. About twenty minutes later, the girls came back out to the kitchen, dressed in their party dresses. 

“For the second part of the party, I thought we could adjourn to the theatre,” Mycroft said. He led all of them to his home theatre. Everyone took a seat. “I’ve managed to procure a copy of a movie that’s not supposed to get to the theatre for awhile yet.” Several servants came in and handed out bags of popcorn, bottles of pop, and chocolate. Sherlock was sitting in the back by himself in his wheelchair. 

The movie started to play. When it became clear that it was Frozen 2, the girls nearly lost their minds screaming before quickly calming down so they could watch it. 

Sherlock sat thinking. The hot water bottles were keeping him somewhat warm, and the paracetamol had dulled his headache a bit. He looked at the back of John’s head, wondering what was going through his mind. He wondered what he’d done to upset John. When the party was over and they got home, would John talk to him? If Mycroft could see that Sherlock was sick and upset, why couldn’t John? Didn’t he care anymore? Was it over? 

The thought of being without John, of losing him forever, was enough to make Sherlock’s queasy stomach lurch. He swallowed repeatedly. He wouldn’t vomit in front of the kids and his family. 

The loud music and singing weren’t great for his headache. He took a sip of Coke. It settled his stomach a bit. He stared at the back of John’s head again, wishing he could read his mind. 

“Oh, G . . . God . . . J . . . John,” he whispered. 

A feeling of dread began marching up his spine on little cat feet, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck and crept up onto the top of his head. He wanted to cry; he wanted to pray; he wanted to fling himself at John’s feet and beg for forgiveness and promise to do whatever he could to fix what was seemingly broken between them. 

He struggled to control himself. He tried focusing on the movie, but it all seemed like a big blur. His head was pounding, and adrenaline seemed to be surging through his blood. He wanted to wail to the heavens to somehow release the fear and agony in his poor labouring heart. 

But he sat, still and quiet as a church mouse. He opened and closed his eyes several times to prevent the tears from coming. He controlled his breathing so no one would suspect. He schooled his expression so it would appear that he was fine, with perhaps a hint of boredom. It took an almighty effort to control his emotions, but he was winning the war. No one could see how upset he was. He would not do that to Rosie on this day of all days. He would in no way make this day about himself. John had had to put so much time into helping Sherlock because of his physical and mental issues. It was a time for him to enjoy Rosie’s birthday. 

Sherlock vowed he wouldn’t say anything. Let John come to him, if he wanted, even if he wanted to tell Sherlock that it was over between them.

“I can’t blame him for wanting to go,” he thought. “I’m not the man he loved. I’m just a poor replacement. A cheap knockoff of a brand name. Maybe he’s been thinking about it for a long time and just didn’t want to tell me because of Rosie’s party. He loves Rosie so much; I can see why he wouldn’t want to disappoint her. Tomorrow or maybe Monday while she’s at school. That’s when he’ll tell me. He’ll sit beside me and look at me with pity and maybe a bit of disgust and tell me he’s moving out and going back to work.

“What’ll I do? I can’t live without him. How will I make it without him? He’s all I have left of my old life. He’s all I ever wanted. All I’ve ever needed. He said he loved me, but has he finally gotten bored of a paralyzed invalid? Our life together isn’t glamourous or exciting. No wonder John went for long walks when he could. Maybe he’s found someone else. Someone normal. Someone whole. A woman maybe? Someone he meets when I’m in my therapy sessions? Someone who can help him raise Rosie and the baby? 

“He’s tired of having to deal with someone who needs help doing everything. He’s tired of me always crying. He called me a machine once because he thought I didn’t care. Now it’s a full 180, and I’m a blubbering mess all the time. He’s tired of me being sick all the time and having to look after me.

“And with the baby coming . . . That’s why he hasn’t bought anything yet. There’s not a piece of baby clothing in the flat or a bed or a changing table or nappies or bottles. Nothing. He didn’t want to bother getting anything in that he’d just have to move later. That must be it.”

Sherlock sat and stewed, his thoughts becoming more and more self-critical. He thought about everything that was wrong with himself: physically, mentally, emotionally. “Can’t walk. Can’t talk right. Can’t use my hands for much. Constantly sick. Scarred everywhere. Emotional crybaby. Can’t think right. Can’t give him sex. And if I can, can’t do the things he’ll want to do. Useless around the house. Useless to help raise Rosie and the baby. Constantly needy. Need constant reassurance. Need to be constantly told that he loves me. Almost every time we go out someone says something or looks at John with pity when they realize we’re together. I’m ugly. I’m so stupid. Stupid to think someone like John could love me. He’s seen the very worst of me. How could he love that?”

When the movie ended, everyone was clapping and the girls were screaming with delight and jumping up and down. The lights came up in the theatre, and this finally brought Sherlock out of his head. 

“How did you enjoy the film, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked as he wheeled him out to the sitting room. 

“S . . . sorry. N . . . not . . . r . . . really . . . m . . . my . . . c . . . cup . . . of . . . t . . . tea.”

“I thought as much. I could almost hear you brooding. I know you’re upset, Sherlock. Please speak to John. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“N . . . not . . . on . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . b . . . birthday. T . . . today’s . . . about . . . h . . . her . . . n . . . not . . . m . . . me.”

“That’s very commendable, but you’re in a lot of pain right now and you’re sick.”

“N . . . no . . . M . . . My.”

“As you wish. Do you want me to reheat the hot water bottles?”

“Wh . . . when . . . it . . . c . . . can . . . b . . . be . . . d . . . done . . . d . . . discretely.”

As everyone else trooped in behind Mycroft and Sherlock, Anthea appeared. “Ladies, we now have a surprise for you. In preparation for tonight’s party, we wanted to make sure that you’re all ready for it.” Eight women came out of a side door, wheeling mobile chairs with them. “So, we’re giving you a spa day. Each of you will get a manicure, a pedicure, and have your hair and makeup done.” 

The girls cheered. 

“And for the older guests, we have a surprise for you as well. If you’ll join me in the other room, we have masseuses and one specializing in pregnancy massage for you Dr. Lestrade.”

The adults all oohed at that. And all of them looked delighted, except for Sherlock. He couldn’t let them see him undressed. It would upset his parents and his friends. And John . . . It was probably better that he not see Sherlock like that. It would certainly no doubt be harder for John to ignore him like he had all afternoon. 

The girls climbed into their chairs, and the adults followed Anthea out of the room. 

“I take it that you don’t wish to participate,” Mycroft said to Sherlock.

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . a . . . anyone . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . without . . . any . . . cl . . . clothes. You . . . kn . . . know . . . it . . . w . . . would . . . r . . . really . . . u . . . upset . . . M . . . Mummy . . . and . . . D . . . Daddy. And . . . e . . . everyone . . . e . . . else . . . as . . . w . . . well.”

“How about the kitchen? It’s the warmest room in the house.”

Sherlock nodded. As he sat at the table, Mycroft warmed water and refilled his hot water bottles and wrapped a thick blanket around Sherlock. 

“You’re . . . n . . . not . . . h . . . having . . . a . . . m . . . massage?”

“No. I don’t really have any wish to strip down to my pants in front of my parents.”

Sherlock smiled. Mycroft just didn’t seem like a massage type of person. 

Mycroft made them both a cup of tea and sat down beside Sherlock. 

“It’s . . . b . . . been . . . a . . . w . . . wonderful . . . p . . . party. You’ve . . . m . . . made . . . R . . . Rosie . . . v . . . very . . . h . . . happy.”

Mycroft smiled. “It’s taken a lot of planning but I do think it’s quite a success.” 

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . believe . . . you . . . g . . . got . . . th . . . that . . . f . . . film. R . . . Rosie . . . h . . . had . . . m . . . mentioned . . . it . . . and . . . w . . . wanting . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . see . . . it.”

“Connections, brother. It’s all about connections.”

Sherlock smiled and said, “And . . . n . . . no . . . d . . . doubt . . . a . . . f . . . few . . . th . . . threats.”

Mycroft sniffed. “If necessary,” he said quietly.

Sherlock laughed. 

“It’s good to hear you laugh, Little Brother.” 

“F . . . feels . . . g . . . good. T . . . too . . . l . . . little . . . l . . . laughing . . . l . . . lately.”

Mycroft sat down across from him. “Do you want to talk?”

“I . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . b . . . but . . . m . . . my . . . d . . . damned . . . e . . . emotions . . . are . . . all . . . o . . . over . . . th . . . the . . . pl . . . place . . . r . . . right . . . n . . . now. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . st . . . start . . . cr . . . crying . . . h . . . here. I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . don’t.”

“I understand.” He reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. 

“I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do . . . th . . . this. I . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . him. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . h . . . how . . . I’ll . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . without . . . h . . . him.”

“You don’t know that’s what’s happening,” Mycroft said.

“It . . . m . . . makes . . . s . . . sense. H . . . how . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . he . . . r . . . really . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me?” His voice caught. “N . . . no . . . I’ve . . . g . . . got . . . t . . . to . . . st . . . stop . . . this.”

They sat in silence for awhile. “Pr . . . promise . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . something.”

“Anything you want, Little Brother.”

“Wh . . . when . . . h . . . he . . . br . . . breaks . . . it . . . o . . . off . . . pr . . . promise . . . you’ll . . . m . . . make . . . s . . . sure . . . th . . . that . . . J . . . John . . . R . . . Rosie . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . b . . . baby . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . okay. Th . . . that . . . you’ll . . . l . . . look . . . af . . . ter . . . th . . . them.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m . . . a . . . always . . . g . . . going . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . love . . . h . . . him . . . M . . . My. N . . . no . . . m . . . matter . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . happens . . . be . . . between . . . us.”

“Whatever you wish. I promise.” 

An hour and a half later, the girls began to come into the kitchen. 

“D . . . don’t . . . you . . . all . . . l . . . look . . . b . . . beautiful,” Sherlock said. The girls all smiled. 

“You must be getting hungry. We’re going to have a feast outside when the adults are done with their massages.”

“Oh, Uncle Mycroft. This has been the best day ever. Thank you so much.” 

“Oh, you’re more than welcome. But the day isn’t over yet. There’s plenty of surprises yet to come. Why don’t you girls all go into the living room?” Mycroft pushed Sherlock and the girls followed them into the living room.

There was a juke box in the corner. “You’re free to choose whatever songs you’d like,” he said. The girls grinned and ran over. Mycroft sat down on a chair after he’d pushed Sherlock to the side. They talked quietly, having to struggle to hear each other over the music. 

When the adults came back into the room, they all looked relaxed and happy. They sat around the living room watching the girls laughing and dancing. 

By 5, Anthea came into the room and whispered in Mycroft’s ear. He stood up and straightened his waistcoat. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served. We have a tent out on the lawn.”

He pushed Sherlock out the back door. There was a very large white tent set up. Everyone sat around the table. Mycroft had moved Sherlock to sit next to him, with Mrs. Hudson and their parents between him and John. Sherlock mouthed thank you to his brother. Sherlock looked down. His eating implements were there waiting for him as was his cup. 

The girls chatted with each other, and waiters came out serving everyone in turn. At the end of the meal, a huge birthday cake was brought out and put in front of Rosie. Rosie’s eyes were huge. Everyone oohed and aaahed over the cake. 

“Make a wish, Rosie,” John called. 

She stood up and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She opened them again and blew out the candles. Everyone clapped and cheered. After everyone had had a lot of cake, they were all sitting around the table incredibly full. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a break for an hour or so in preparation for the dance that is to come. If we can make our way back into the house, we can all have a rest perhaps before the evening continues,” Mycroft said.

They slowly made their way back into the house. Anthea led Mummy and Daddy to a room and Mrs. Hudson to another and Greg and Molly to another. The girls decided to play music and talk in the living room. John stayed with them without even looking at Sherlock.

Mycroft stayed with Sherlock in the kitchen and warmed up his hot water bottles. “Why don’t you lie down for a while?”

“I’m . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . sure . . . I . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . alone.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

Mycroft pushed Sherlock into a small bedroom on the first floor, far enough away from the living room that the music wasn’t very loud. He picked Sherlock up and laid him on the bed. He pulled up the blankets and covered him. 

“Warmer?”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft pulled over a chair and sat down beside Sherlock. “Try to get some rest, alright?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, but the thoughts that went through his mind . . . John looking at him with a look of disgust and pity. John packing his bags. John telling him he was leaving and never coming back. John and Rosie stepping into the lift. 

Sherlock opened his eyes wide. 

“What’s wrong?”

“J . . . John. I . . . s . . . saw . . . h . . . him . . . l . . . leaving.” His breathing was ragged. It felt like his heart was thumping out of his chest. 

“It’s alright. It wasn’t real. It didn’t happen,” Mycroft said calmly, taking Sherlock’s hand and squeezing it. 

“B . . . but . . . it . . . c . . . could . . . b . . . be. It . . . c . . . could . . . b . . . be . . . wh . . . when . . . w . . . we . . . g . . . go . . . h . . . home . . . or . . . t . . . tomorrow.” Sherlock could feel the tears starting. “H . . . he’s . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . said . . . a . . . anything . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . me . . . s . . . since . . . w . . . we . . . g . . .got . . . h . . . here. I . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . d . . . did. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . do. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . m . . . make . . . it . . . w . . . without . . . h . . . him. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . w . . . without . . . h . . . him.” He sobbed, and his whole body was shaking.

Mycroft squeezed his hand again. “You can’t make assumptions, Sherlock. It does no one any good.” 

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . a . . . assume. I . . . ob . . . observe.”

“But you don’t know for sure. He could be angry about something. Or he could have something distracting or bothering him. Maybe he was just anxious about Rosie’s party. Or about the baby. There are a lot of things that could explain it.”

“B . . . but . . . w . . . we’re . . . s . . . supposed . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . p . . . partners. If . . . s . . . something . . . w . . . was . . . b . . . bothering . . . h . . . him . . . he . . . sh . . . should . . . h . . . have . . . l . . . let . . . m . . . me . . . kn . . . know.”

“I know. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Maybe he just couldn’t find the words to do it. You can’t know what’s going on in his head right now.” 

“H . . . he . . . c . . . could . . . b . . . be . . . w . . . waiting . . . un . . . til . . . w . . . we . . . g . . . get . . . h . . . home . . . or . . . t . . . tomorrow . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . say . . . g . . . goodbye.”

“Please don’t do this to yourself, Sherlock. Please. Let me go get him. Let him put your mind to rest right now.”

“N . . . no. N . . . not . . . on . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . b . . . birthday. I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . h . . . her . . . h . . . hurt . . . on . . . h . . . her . . . b . . . birthday. Pl . . . please . . . M . . . My.” The eyes that stared up at Mycroft were full of pain and fear.

“I won’t. I promise,” Mycroft said, though he wanted, more than anything in the world right now, to throttle John Hamish Watson for causing his little brother so much pain. Mycroft tamped his anger far, far down and concentrated instead on the shivering, crying man in front of him. He stood up and laid down beside Sherlock, gathering him into his arms. “Shhh, Sherlock. It’ll be alright. I promise. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I will make sure that it gets better.” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock hugged Mycroft to him and cried like he hadn’t since he was a boy. Mycroft was talking to him, in a low and comforting voice telling him over and over again that it would be alright, that he was safe, that he would make it better.

Mycroft held Sherlock until he’d cried himself to sleep, and even then, he didn’t stop rubbing his back and whispering that everything would be fine. But all the while, his mind was turning, thinking. 

He had come to care about John Watson and had learned to appreciate him for all that he’d done for Sherlock. And Mycroft had absolutely no doubt in his mind that Sherlock couldn’t make it without him. If John Watson hurt his brother, if he left him and broke his battered heart, John would suffer, despite what he’d promised Sherlock. 

He could feel how cold and clammy Sherlock’s skin was. He was incredibly pale, and there were dark, black circles under his eyes. How could John, a certified doctor, ignore these signs and not realize that Sherlock was very sick? Was he that unobservant? Or did he just not care? 

As Mycroft lay there, he looked down at his sleeping brother’s face. He looked so young when he slept, like the little boy that Mycroft had comforted once upon a time. By the time he’d come to realize how important Sherlock was to him, their relationship had almost been permanently damaged. He’d sworn, after Sherlock’s first overdose, that he would do anything to protect him. They’d had a long talk after he woke up in the hospital. Mycroft had argued and pleaded with him to never take drugs and not call if he needed him, and Sherlock made a solemn promise that he would and that he would provide Mycroft with a list of what he’d taken. This had eased Mycroft’s mind somewhat. But he still couldn’t get it out of his head that some of the overdoses were purposeful. That Sherlock was, by times, suicidal.

Mycroft remembered the day his parents had brought Sherlock home from the hospital after he was born. From the very beginning of their relationship, Mycroft had been utterly fascinated by and completely loved his little brother. As he held him for the first time, Sherlock opened his eyes and seemed to somehow look deep into Mycroft’s soul when their eyes locked. And as he grew, Mycroft was sure Sherlock was going to be a better person then he could ever be. Sherlock cared; he cared deeply about others. Mycroft was a genius and used that genius to manipulate people he saw as being beneath him, which included almost everyone. But Sherlock . . . he was a genius, and he cared. Too much, Mycroft always considered.

It broke his heart to know that the other children made fun of Sherlock and bullied him. Night after night, a crying Sherlock would come to Mycroft asking why no one liked him. He’d told his little brother that they were jealous little goldfish whose lives would never reach the heights that Sherlock’s would. 

He always regretted what boarding school had done to their relationship. It had made him even colder than he normally was — the Iceman that he still was and would always be. Losing his fiancée and son had nearly ruined him, and he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t lose Sherlock too.

And he knew that he would never, ever forgive himself for what happened to Sherlock. When he was first kidnapped, Mycroft had thought he’d disappeared for a case. But when Sherlock was found so injured, so broken, so near death, he had literally felt the cold, cold heart within him snap in two. If he’d put his mind to it, he’d have found Sherlock. He’d have killed those men before they could ever have hurt him. He had to make due with punishing them in his own private prison along with that animal that John Watson had brought into their lives.

He’d never thought Sherlock would allow himself to fall in love, and when he had, Mycroft had been skeptical. He knew John was temperamental, too quick with his fists and with angry, bitter language. He’d known, of course, from the report he’d ordered on John when he and Sherlock had first met, that John was bisexual, though a rather unwilling to admit it even to himself one. And he’d hurt Sherlock — too many times. He’d watched from the sidelines as his brother risked his life, sometimes foolishly, to secure John’s safety. Why the whole two-year “hiatus” had been for that reason more than anything. And look what had happened to Sherlock as a result of that. Scars up and down his back and a wild case of PTSD. 

When Mary had come onto the scene, he’d watched while Sherlock mourned for John. But he’d sacrificed himself again and again because he thought Mary made John happy. He’d never considered that Sherlock could be that self-sacrificing. But Sherlock cared — too much — for John and always would.

And if John hurt him again, in any way, he would pay. Maybe not the prison, but he would rue the day he hurt Sherlock again. If he broke that particular heart again, there would be nowhere on Earth or in Heaven where he could hide to escape Mycroft.

 

Half an hour later, there was a soft knock on the door and it opened. Anthea didn’t even blink seeing Mycroft cradling his brother in his arms. 

“Sir, your guest has arrived. Her people are still setting up their equipment. They should be done soon. Do you require anything?”

“Let her know that I’ll be down in awhile. My brother needs me.”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea quietly closed the door. 

Mycroft wanted Sherlock to sleep. Maybe it would be better if he did. He seemed to be calm. “Oh, Brother Mine.” He sighed. “Why couldn’t life ever give Sherlock happiness?” he thought. “He so deserves it.”

But he was wrong. Sherlock soon started to twitch and moan in his sleep. His eyes opened wide and he screamed, “N . . . NO . . . J . . . JOHN!!”

Mycroft shook him.

“Sherlock! It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wild and unfocused. “D . . . don’t . . . g . . . go!” He reached out towards something that only he could see.

Mycroft shook Sherlock, trying to bring him back to himself. “Sherlock! It’s your brother. You’re in my home. You’re safe. You’re with me.”

Slowly, awareness began to dawn on Sherlock’s face. “M . . . My?” he whispered in a small, childlike voice.

“I’m here, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, tenderly touching the sides of Sherlock’s face. “You’re okay.”

“H . . . has . . . h . . . he . . . g . . . gone . . . th . . . then?” Sherlock asked.

“No. You’re here for Rosie’s party. Remember?”

Sherlock seemed to be searching his memory. For entirely too long, Mycroft thought. 

“I . . . I . . .” Sherlock was searching for words. Mycroft was beginning to worry.

There was an urgent knocking at the door. “Come in,” Mycroft called gruffly.

Mummy and Daddy stood at the door, their faces tight with worry. “What’s wrong?” Mummy asked as she moved towards the bed. She sat down on the edge and reached for Sherlock.

“He fell asleep. Had a nightmare. A rather intense one I fear.” 

“Should I get John?” Daddy asked, still in the doorway.

“No. Sherlock wouldn’t want to bother him when he’s with Rosie. We can take care of him ourselves.”

“Does he need anything?” Daddy asked. 

“Maybe a glass of water?”

Daddy nodded his head and went to fetch some water.

“I . . . I . . . I . . . r . . . remember. It’s . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . b . . . birthday. S . . . sorry. Dr . . . dream . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . r . . . real.”

“Are you alright, darling?” Mummy asked as she squeezed his arm.

“D . . . did . . . I . . . d . . . disturb . . . you?” he asked, looking down at the bed, his whole countenance like that of a whipped dog. “I . . . I’m . . . s . . . sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. You couldn’t help it that you had a nightmare. Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, a silent call for help in his eyes.

“I think all he needs is a little rest. The party will be entering its next phase in a little while.”

“Are you sure?” Mummy asked. She reached out and felt Sherlock’s forehead. “You don’t seem well. You’re terribly pale and your skin is clammy.”

“He’s always been pale, Mummy. And he’s been sweating under the sheets. He’s fine.”

Mummy looked incredibly skeptical but looked up when Daddy returned with a drink of water.

Mycroft help Sherlock take a drink. “Better?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Wh . . . why . . . d . . . don’t . . . you . . . g . . . go . . . b . . . back . . . t . . . to . . . your . . . r . . . room . . . t . . . to . . . r . . . rest? I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . f . . . fine.”

“If you say so, son,” Daddy said. He helped Mummy up and the two closed the door behind them.

“They mean well. You know that.”

“I . . . c . . . can’t . . . s . . . say . . . a . . . anything . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . them. N . . . not . . . n . . . now.”

“Do you want to get up or would you like to get some more rest?”

“I . . . c . . . certainly . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . another . . . dr . . . dream. M . . . maybe . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . could . . . g . . . go . . . t . . . to . . . th . . . the . . . k . . . kitchen . . . and . . . h . . . have . . . s . . . some . . . tea?”

“If you’re sure. I’ll warm up the hot water bottles too, then.”

Mycroft stood up and straightened his, by now, wrinkled suit coat and trousers. He gently pulled back the covers and lifted his brother up and placed him in his wheelchair.

As he made tea and warmed water, Mycroft considered his brother once more. He was so awfully, painfully thin, dangerously so. He’d always been lean, a fact that Mycroft had to admit he’d envied, but now he was positively skeletal in appearance. His cheekbones looked near to piercing his skin and the blackness around his eyes coupled with the whiteness of his skin gave his whole face the rather disturbing appearance of a skull. He quickly shook his head to try to clear it of that vision. 

He set the tea in front of Sherlock who reached out with trembling hands to grab it and bring it to his lips. He closed his eyes in pleasure as the heat entered his body. 

“Sherlock?”

“Mmmm?”

“Let me take you away someplace. We’ll go someplace warm, someplace hot. Then you won’t be cold anymore. You won’t shiver and shake and need warm clothes and blankets. Maybe a desert? Or an island in the South Pacific? I know of one that we could have all to ourselves, well except for the servants of course. I’ll find the best doctor in the world to treat you. No more “there’s nothing we can do.” No more “it’ll have to run its course.” You can lay on the beach all day in the sunlight and get some colour into your cheeks. And you can have whatever you want to eat. We’ll get you fattened up so you can fit in your old clothes. And I’ll bring you puzzles and mysteries to work on. Case files, if you want. Please, please let me do this for you.” He reached out and touched Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eye haunted. “I . . . I . . . w . . . would . . . l . . . like . . . t . . . to. I . . . h . . . hate . . . b . . . being . . . s . . . so . . . c . . . cold . . . and . . . m . . . miserable. B . . . but . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . l . . . leave . . . J . . . John. Wh . . . what . . . if . . . h . . . he . . . n . . . needs . . . m . . . me? Or . . . wh . . . what . . . if . . . R . . . Rosie . . . n . . . needs . . . m . . . me?”

“Sherlock, what if he hurts you? I don’t want that to happen. I really don’t. I want you to be happy. But who knows what’s wrong with him? Please let me take you away for awhile. Just until you’re stronger.”

“I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hear . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . he . . . h . . . has . . . t . . . to . . . s . . . say. I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . I . . . d . . . did . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . make . . . h . . . him . . . a . . . angry. I . . . h . . . have . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . beg . . . h . . . him . . . n . . . not . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . leave . . . m . . . me. I’ll . . . d . . . do . . . any . . . th . . . thing. I . . . n . . . need . . . h . . . him . . . M . . . My. W . . . without . . . h . . . him . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . h . . . has . . . n . . . no . . . m . . . meaning. If . . . h . . . he . . . g . . . goes . . . I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . a . . . all . . . a . . . alone . . . a . . . again. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . l . . . live . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . that. I . . . w . . . won’t. I’d . . . r . . . rather . . . d . . . die.”

Mycroft felt the cold hand of fear close around him. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You’ve been so strong. You’ve survived what most people couldn’t. I don’t think I could have in all honesty. Don’t let go. Please, please let me get John so the two of you can talk this out. So you can put your mind at rest. You’re imagining the very worst of things right now. It may all be a simple misunderstanding. Please let me make this better for you. You’re going to make yourself even sicker worrying like this.”

“N . . . no. N . . . not . . . on . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . b . . . birthday.”

“Don’t you think she’s already noticed?”

Sherlock hadn’t considered that. But she’d been so preoccupied the past week. And she wouldn’t notice if a pig flew through the air above her head today. “N . . . no.” 

Mycroft sighed. His brother could be so stubborn sometimes, to the point of self-harm. “I have to go talk to the new guest we have for the party. Will you be okay here by yourself or should I ask Greg and Molly or Anthea to come sit with you?”

“A . . . Anthea . . . is . . . pr . . . probably . . . b . . . busy . . . and . . . I . . . d . . . don’t . . . w . . . want . . . t . . . to . . . dis . . . turb . . . Gr . . . Greg . . . and . . . M . . . Molly. I’ll . . . b . . . be . . . o . . . okay . . . b . . . by . . . m . . . myself.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I . . . d . . . do . . . ap . . . appreciate . . . wh . . . what . . . you . . . s . . . said. Wh . . . what . . . you . . . off . . . offered. I . . . r . . . really . . . d . . . do.” His shaking hand reached out to squeeze Mycroft’s hand. “Br . . . Brother . . . M . . . Mine.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “Anything for you, Sherlock. You know that.”

“I . . . d . . . do. You’ve . . . s . . . seen . . . th . . . the . . . v . . . very . . . w . . . worst . . . of . . . m . . . me . . . yet . . . you . . . st . . . still . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me.”

“And I always will.” Mycroft stood up and bent over to softly place a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “I regret so many things that I’ve done to ruin our relationship. The cruel words I’ve said, ignoring you, abandoning you. If I could take it all back, I would.”

“You’ve . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . m . . . made . . . up . . . f . . . for . . . it.”

“Not really. I’ll never forgive myself for not coming for you.”

“You . . . c . . . couldn’t . . . h . . . have . . . kn . . . known. I’ve . . . d . . . disappeared . . . f . . . for . . . l . . . longer . . . th . . . than . . . th . . . three . . . d . . . days . . . b . . . before. It . . . h . . . hardly . . . s . . . seems . . . r . . . right. It . . . w . . . was . . . j . . . just . . . thr . . . three . . . d . . . days. F . . . feels . . . l . . . like . . . it . . . w . . . was . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much . . . l . . . longer.”

“I’ve read that negative emotions bring a person’s attention to the passing of time and that’s why it seems to last longer.”

“Th . . . that . . . w . . . would . . . ex . . . explain it.” 

“Find a place inside where there's joy and the joy will burn out the pain.”

“J . . . Joseph . . . C . . . Campbell. I . . . h . . . have . . . J . . . John . . . f . . . for . . . th . . . that. H . . . he . . . f . . . fills . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . with . . . j . . . joy. B . . . but . . . if . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . leaves . . . all . . . th . . . that . . . w . . . will . . . b . . . be . . . l . . . left . . . is . . . p . . . pain.”

“But you’ll always have the rest of us. We aren’t the same as John, I know. But we do love you and want to help. I know I’ve interfered with your life so many times, but I’ve learned that doesn’t work. If you feel lost and afraid, if you feel that all the light has gone out of the world, I will sit with you in the dark. Forever if need be. I will hold your hand or your whole body. I’ll listen or sit beside you in silence. I’ll always be there for you.”

Sherlock’s throat felt tight, and he could feel his bottom lip quivering. Mycroft had never bared himself like this ever before. He felt like he did when he was a child: safe. He felt safe because his big brother would always be there. Would always have his back. And that made things feel better. And he knew that he could face whatever John had to say. Whatever John did. He would never be truly happy the whole rest of his life if John left. But he’d at least have someone to be there for him.

“Th . . . thank . . . you . . . M . . . My. You . . . m . . . make . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . feel . . . s . . . safe.”

Mycroft looked surprised. “I’m glad. I’m truly glad. I’ll go see to our guest and be back as soon as I can.”

Sherlock smiled at his brother. As Mycroft left, he thought about it. Maybe he could survive John’s loss. He’d rather not, but he could. He had fully accepted at one point in his life that John was 100% straight and would never want him. It had seared his heart like a steak on a barbeque. But he had survived. He had accepted that John would never be his. And he’d come to live with it. 

But John was so much more to him now. John had become as integral to his life as air and food. There wasn’t such a thing in his mind as Sherlock and John as two distinct separate people. They were one: SherlockJohn. And losing him would feel like cutting his body right down the middle and throwing it away. 

But, if it had to be done, he’d do it. 

“Uncle Sherlock?” he heard from the doorway. He looked up. Rosie was standing there. “Are you okay? You don’t look good.”

He smiled at her. “J . . . just . . . a . . . l . . . little . . . c . . . cold. I’m . . . okay.”

“You promise?”

He nodded. 

“Good,” she smiled at him. “I was looking for a drink of water.” 

“Tr . . . try . . . th . . . the . . . fr . . . fridge. I’m . . . s . . . sure . . . M . . . Mycroft . . . h . . . has . . . w . . . water . . . in . . . th . . . there.”

She opened the fridge door and reached in. She brought the bottle to him. “Can you open this for me?”

Sherlock looked a little stumped. “I . . . d . . . don’t . . . kn . . . know. I’ll . . . tr . . . try.” He took the bottle and after three or four tries, he got it open. She climbed up into his lap and took a drink. He put his arms around her and cuddled her to his chest. If John left, he’d take this wonderful little girl out of his life as well. He leaned over to sniff the top of her head, but she smelled like hairspray, not the warm familiar smell he was used to. 

“You shouldn’t be out here all alone,” she said.

“My . . . br . . . brother’s . . . arr . . . anging . . . an . . . other . . . s . . . surprise. He’ll . . . b . . . be . . . r . . . right . . . b . . . back.”

“Another surprise? How could there be more?” she said, smiling widely. 

“Are . . . you . . . h . . . having . . . a . . . g . . . good . . . t . . . time?”

“Oh, the absolute best!! This is the best birthday party anyone’s ever had in the whole history of the world!!! I can’t believe we’ve got to do so much. The horses were great and the spa and the hairdressers and makeup and the dinner and cake and the music. I can’t imagine what’s next.”

“I . . . d . . . don’t . . . th . . . think . . . it’ll . . . b . . . be . . . l . . . long . . . n . . . now.”

“My friends are so excited. They’ve all told me what a wonderful time they’re having.”

“I’m . . . s . . . so . . . h . . . happy . . . f . . . for . . . you . . . sw . . . sweetheart.” 

“Do you like how she did my hair? Aren’t my nails pretty?” she asked, showing Sherlock her fingernails. 

He looked at her and smiled. “You . . . l . . . look . . . b . . . beautiful. Ab . . . absolutely . . . b . . . beautiful. I . . . l . . . love . . . th . . . the . . . gr . . . green . . . h . . . highlights . . . in . . . your . . . h . . . hair . . . and . . . th . . . the . . . gr . . . green . . . nail . . . p . . . polish.” He leaned in closer to her and whispered, “You . . . kn . . . know . . . you’re . . . th . . . the . . . m . . . most . . . beau . . . tiful . . . g . . . girl . . . h . . . here.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“D . . . definitely.”

“That’s what Papa said too. But he has to say that, he’s my Papa. You really think so too?”

“Cr . . . cross . . . m . . . my . . . h . . . heart . . . and . . . h . . . hope . . . t . . . to . . . d . . . die.”

“Welllll. I guess that it’s true then.” She smiled brightly and hugged him. 

“Are you coming back to dance?” they heard from the doorway. A little girl stood there.

“I was just getting a drink. I’ll be right back,” Rosie said. As she climbed off Sherlock’s lap, she kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re having a good time at my party.”

He smiled at her as she left the room. He was glad that she was enjoying her big day and knew that his decision to not confront John was absolutely the best thing he could have done.

He heard someone come into the room. Thinking it was Mycroft, he looked up, prepared to ask him for another cup of tea. But it wasn’t Mycroft. It was John.

They looked at each other for a moment. Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He wanted to throw himself on the floor and beg for forgiveness, even though he didn’t know what he’d done. He wanted John to come to him and take him into his arms and kiss him and tell him everything was fine. He wanted to see him smile that special smile he only used with Sherlock.

But, as John stood at the door, Sherlock could see him breathing deeply through his nose and could feel the anger coming off of him in almost physical waves. His teeth were clenched. He took one deep sniff through his nose then he quickly moved closer to Sherlock. He came so fast and with such a look of anger on his face that Sherlock actually flinched, afraid John was going to attack him. John’s resolve seemed to weaken when he saw the fear in Sherlock’s eye. “Stop sitting out here by yourself sulking. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but you’re not going to ruin Rosie’s party with your selfishness. I’ve had enough.”

“B . . . but . . . I . . . I . . .” John was slurring his words. Up close, Sherlock could smell the wine on his breath. He hadn’t been paying attention during dinner. John must have drunk glass after glass of wine.

“And stop with trying to make excuses. You have absolutely no excuse,” John hissed at Sherlock. He bent closer and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his shirt with both hands. “You will come in and enjoy the party. Stop this feeling sorry for yourself.”

Sherlock hadn’t seen John this angry at him since he’d come back from the two-year hiatus. Then, John had broken his nose and tore open all the stitches on his back. There was a look very near to hate in John’s eyes. John pulled on his shirt again, lifting him clear of the wheelchair seat. 

“Do you hear me?”

Unbidden, tears began to fill Sherlock’s eyes.

“Good sweet Christ,” John said. “Here come the fucking tears again. I’m so goddamned tired of seeing you blubbing like a fucking baby. Grow a fucking pair, you bellend.”

Sherlock was afraid now. Truly afraid of the man he loved with all of his heart. He tried to stop crying but found he couldn’t. 

John roughly shook him, so hard that his teeth rattled. “I said stop it!”

Pain blossomed in Sherlock’s head. The low-grade headache exploded into full throbbing pain. He squeezed his eyes shut as the light in the room was suddenly too bright. 

“Look at me, damn it.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, squinting at John’s face. 

“You’re such a freak. You’re so fucking damaged. I can’t believe that I let myself fall in love with you. You’re pathetic. You’re nowhere near the man I fell in love with. He was a man. You’re a mewling, helpless, ugly, disgusting piece of shit.” John reached back and backhanded Sherlock, hard, across the face.

Sherlock cried out and clutched his cheek. His head felt like it had come loose from his neck. John clenched his fist and pulled it back. Sherlock cried out in fear. 

And suddenly, Mycroft was there. He grabbed John’s raised hand and pulled it, hard, behind his back. John cried out in pain. Mycroft slammed him into the table and bent over to hiss in his ear, “That . . . is . . . enough.”

“Let me fucking go,” John said as he struggled to get free.

Mycroft pushed John’s arm higher up his back. John froze as pain overwhelmed him. “You . . . will . . . never . . . ever . . . raise . . . your . . . hand . . . in . . . anger . . . to . . . my . . . brother . . . again. Do . . . you . . . hear . . . me?” Sherlock shivered with the anger and ferocity of Mycroft’s voice. He shook John, hard. “Did . . . you . . . hear . . . me?”

John nodded, and Mycroft let him go. “Get out of the kitchen. Try to act a bit more sober, you drunken sod. Do not ruin your daughter’s party, John Watson.”

John gave Mycroft a dirty look. As he walked out of the kitchen, he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock shivered at the look on John’s face.

Sherlock was in shock. He knew that John was capable of violence. He knew that John had a temper. And he’d been the victim of that anger before. But this was . . . 

“H . . . he . . . l . . . looked . . . at . . . m . . . me . . . w . . . with . . . s . . . such . . . h . . . hate. H . . . he . . . h . . . he . . . h . . . hates . . . m . . . me.”

Mycroft stood there, frozen. “He’s drunk, Sherlock. He didn’t mean what he said.”

“H . . . he . . . s . . . said . . . h . . . he . . . c . . . can’t . . . b . . . believe . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . loved . . . m . . . me. Th . . . that . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . p . . . pathetic . . . and . . . a . . . fr . . . freak.”

“Sherlock . . .”

“N . . . no. G . . . go . . . into . . . th . . . the . . . l . . . living . . . r . . . room. M . . . make . . . s . . . sure . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . r . . . ruin . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party.”

“But you need me. You’re upset. You’ve just been assaulted.”

“Th . . . that . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . m . . . matter. On . . . only . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . . p . . . party . . . m . . . matters.”

Mycroft nodded his head. He squeezed Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock wanted to cry, to scream, to completely flip out. But he was strangely calm. 

So . . . this was it. He knew how John truly felt now. John had loved him once — the old him. And, as he’d always feared, who he was now just wasn’t good enough. He was a pathetic, weak shadow of the man John had loved. Was it pity that had kept John with him so long? Probably. Mycroft had said John didn’t mean it, that he’d been drunk. But there was the old saying ‘in vino veritas.’ Maybe being drunk freed his tongue and he finally told the truth. The cold, hard truth. 

He’d thought he’d finally gotten the only thing that he’d ever truly wanted — John’s heart. And they were only a few weeks away from finally consummating their relationship. Now he had to question even that. Would John have gone through with it? Was he that disgusted by him? 

Sherlock looked down at his body. His twisted, misshapen legs, the missing fingers, his almost skeletal appearance, plus he thought about the landscape of scars covering his back. How could he expect John to really want him? 

He was almost violently shaking from both the cold and the emotions sweeping over him like a tsunami. He wanted to go somewhere else, anywhere else. He wanted to hide in a dark room with the covers pulled over his head. He didn’t want to see anyone. He just wanted to be alone with his misery. 

But he couldn’t. He owed it to Rosie. A lump formed in his throat. He knew he’d probably never see Rosie again after that night. He’d never hear her laughing, see her smiling face. But . . . 

Yes. He owed this night to her. It had to be the best night of her life. 

He looked up as Anthea entered the room. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Your brother texted me to ask me to sit here with you.”

“W . . . would . . . you . . . t . . . take . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . wh . . . where . . . th . . . the . . . g . . . girls . . . are?”

She nodded and wheeled him into the sitting room. The girls were running around and dancing and singing to the music. John was sitting on one of the chairs watching them and smiling. Mycroft was sitting across from John, his gaze never leaving John. 

Sherlock was wheeled over to sit beside the sofa. His heart was breaking, and the last thing he wanted to do was be in the same room as John. He was afraid, very afraid of John right now. 

He watched the girls dancing and laughing, hoping beyond hope that John wouldn’t make a scene. He stayed quiet. His eye nervously flicking back and forth between the girls and John. So far, John seemed to be having a good time, ignoring everyone but Rosie and the girls. It was almost as if what had happened in the kitchen hadn’t taken place at all. 

Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, pity on his face. 

And Sherlock knew why. What would he do now? John couldn’t take them home. He was too drunk. And what if Rosie said something he didn’t like? He’d never raised his hand to Rosie in his life; he’d told him that before. But Rosie would be so excited after the party. He had a feeling that Mycroft would send men home with them or ask Mrs. Hudson to let Rosie stay with her. 

“And what about me?” he thought. He was afraid to go home with John. Last time, it had only been harsh words. This time, physical assault. And when they were alone again? He shivered, this having nothing to do with his being cold. It was fear. He’d be completely helpless. He couldn’t defend himself. He was physically weak and sick. John’s fists would make mincemeat of him. 

He knew Mycroft wouldn’t let that happen. But what could they do?

“Oh, my love,” he thought. “What’s become of us? What did I do? Do you really hate me? Please don’t let it be true.” Sherlock felt as if his life had come to a crashing end. He felt like John had reached in and crushed his heart. 

Sherlock would never, ever have touched John in anger. True, he’d used harsh words in the past, but it had only been to ultimately protect him. 

He went through the last few weeks over and over and over in his mind but couldn’t detect anything that he’d done that could have led to this. Was John frustrated because he was constantly sick? Was he frustrated because Sherlock hadn’t allowed more sexual contact between them? Had he said something to offend John? Had he not paid enough attention? “What the hell did I do?” he thought over and over.

Mycroft eventually stood up, as Anthea came in the room, having retrieved Mrs. Hudson, Mummy and Daddy, and Greg and Molly. He went over and turned off the juke box. “Ladies,” he said. “I have one more treat for you for Rosie’s birthday. If you’ll join me outside.” Everyone followed. Sherlock thought it would be safest for him to bring up the back and make as little an impression as possible. Anthea pushed his wheelchair. 

The white tent had been replaced by an even bigger tent, with tables at the back and a stage at the front. There was a bar there that looked to be serving ice cream and cake and drinks. 

Mycroft directed the girls towards the stage. “Ladies, I have engaged the services of a band to play for you for the rest of the evening. I believe the singer will need no introduction to you so may I present her to you.”

Mycroft moved to the side as a band slowly took the stage. The music began to play before a young woman came on stage. All of the girls began to jump up and down and scream. “Ariana Grande!!!” they screamed. 

Ariana smiled at the girls and began to sing. The girls began to dance. 

Sherlock saw how happy the girls were and smiled. He wanted Rosie to have the best day of her life, and it seemed that she was. What would happen tomorrow, he had no idea.

He looked up as John approached the bar. Mycroft had seen it too and signalled to the man behind the bar. John was apparently very unhappy with whatever the waiter said. Sherlock could see the anger on his face. Mycroft quickly approached him and started whispering in his ear. John looked extremely put out and ready to fight. Mycroft pointed to Rosie, and John sobered before stalking out of the tent and into the house. 

“Everything alright, son?” Daddy asked.

“Oh, yes. More than alright,” Mycroft said as he sat down around the table with them. “John is just feeling a bit . . . off.”

“The way he was putting away the wine at dinner, I don’t doubt it,” Mrs. Hudson said, arching an eyebrow.

“He’ll be fine,” Mycroft said. 

“M . . . My . . . m . . . maybe . . . w . . . we . . . c . . . can . . . g . . . go . . . in . . . and . . . m . . . make . . . h . . . him . . . s . . . some . . . c . . . coffee?”

“If you think so.” Mycroft wheeled Sherlock back in the house. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said when they got back into the house.

“W . . . we’ve . . . g . . . got . . . t . . . to . . . m . . . make . . . s . . . sure . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . f . . . find . . . a . . . anything . . . el . . . else . . . t . . . to . . . dr . . . drink.”

“Yes. I suppose that would be the best course.”

They went into the kitchen and found John sitting at the table with a glass of wine. 

“I really think you don’t need any more of that,” Mycroft said coldly. “You’re inebriated enough. It’s just a good thing that your daughter hasn’t noticed it.” 

“Don’t talk about my daughter. You had to go and show off, didn’t you? Give her things that I can’t ever give her. I should never have said yes to this goddamned party.” 

“You . . . t . . . told . . . m . . . me . . . you . . . w . . . wouldn’t . . . dr . . . drink . . . a . . . any . . . m . . . more . . . th . . . than . . . a . . . p . . . pint . . . or . . . t . . . two.”

John turned to Sherlock. “I’ll drink whatever the hell I want to, when I want to. You don’t get to tell me how to do anything. I said it before and I mean it. I can’t believe I let myself fall in love with you. You’re nothing like the man you were. He was smart, handsome, sexy. You, you’re a pathetic waste of time. Ugly and stupid. I can’t believe I let you touch me and wanted to touch you. I’m glad you never let me fuck you. It would have been . . .”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!!” Mycroft yelled. He slammed the door behind him. He marched over to where John was sitting. “YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO MY BROTHER LIKE THAT. I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE DRUNK. YOU WILL KEEP A CIVIL TONGUE IN YOUR HEAD, JOHN WATSON.”

John got to his feet, pushing his chair over, and stood wobbling. He wagged his finger in Mycroft’s face. “I’ll say whatever the hell I want to, Mycroft Holmes. It’s none of your fucking business what I say to your brother,” he said from between clenched teeth.

Mycroft stood up straighter and looked down his nose at John, his left eyebrow raised as high as he was able. “You will calm down or you will be thrown out of this house.”

“N . . . no . . . M . . . My. It’s . . . R . . . Rosie’s . . .”

“I know it’s Rosie’s birthday, Sherlock. You’ve gone through enough pain and abuse today because you apparently care much more about her happiness than her own father. A father, I might add, who’s doing quite a lot to ruin the day.”

John’s face turned red. “You think you’re so big standing there, Mycroft. Throwing a party for my daughter like this. Making me look like a deadbeat bum. Making her expect things like this every year. I’m taking her home.”

“You will not. She’s having a good time. I will not let you embarrass your own daughter by acting like a drunken fool.” 

John stopped and blinked twice. He put his hands on the table, wobbling back and forth. “Em . . . barrass . . . her?”

“Yes. You’re extremely drunk, and you’re going to ruin her birthday.”

John sat down, putting his head in his hands. “’Msorry. Don’t want to ruin Rosie’s big day.” 

“Let’s get you some coffee,” Mycroft said, his voice gentling. 

Sherlock stayed as far away from John as he could. He was still afraid. Though John seemed calm now, there was no telling if something would set him off again.

Mycroft gave John several cups of coffee that he drank down quickly, no doubt burning his tongue. That was followed by several glasses of water and a trip to the loo. 

“I think I can go back out now,” he said, his voice only slurring a bit.

“You will behave yourself, or I’ll have my men bring you back inside,” Mycroft warned, sternly.

“I will,” John said, in a meek voice. With his head down, he walked past Sherlock without even looking at him and out the door. 

“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked Sherlock. He placed his hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock, deep in thought, jumped in surprise at the contact and jerked away. When he saw that it was Mycroft, he said, “S . . . sorry.”

“He really frightened you, didn’t he?” Mycroft crouched down in front of Sherlock, taking one of his hands.

“I . . . j . . . just . . . n . . . never . . . th . . . thought . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . hit . . . m . . . me. N . . . not . . . n . . . now. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . e . . . even . . . d . . . defend . . . m . . . myself,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. It was only with the most herculean effort that he kept himself from falling apart. After the party, he kept telling himself. You have to keep it together until after the party.

“I didn’t either. A miscalculation on my part. I never should have let be so overserved. It was the drink that did this, Sherlock. When he remembers what he did, he’s going to be utterly ashamed.”

“W . . . will . . . h . . . he? ‘I . . . in . . . v . . . vino . . . v . . . veritas.’ P . . . perhaps . . . h . . . he . . . s . . . said . . . wh . . . what . . . h . . . his . . . s . . . sub . . . c . . . conscious . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . been . . . th . . . thinking.”

Mycroft sighed, taking in the carefully blank look on Sherlock’s face, the noticeably dry eyes, the blinking (to no doubt keep them that way). The only thing giving his emotions away were his visibly trembling hands. He wanted to talk to Sherlock about this but realized that, if he did so, Sherlock could have a full meltdown. 

“L . . . let’s . . . r . . . rejoin . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . party,” Sherlock said as he sat up straight and squared his shoulders. He had a look of determination and resignation on his face, like a soldier off to face battle. 

Mycroft wheeled him out and pushed him in towards the table on the opposite side of John, beside Greg and Molly.

Sherlock began a lively conversation with them both about past cases. Mycroft knew it was to keep his mind busy so he didn’t dwell on the events of the day.

Ariana played for another hour before the set was over and then stayed to talk to the girls, take pictures, and give autographs for another half hour. When she finally left, she gave each girl a kiss and a hug. 

As everyone went back into the house, Mycroft announced that it was time to open the presents. Rosie very excitedly went to the table. A chair had been set up beside it, and the other girls sat around the table on the floor. The adults sat in chairs a bit farther away.

Rosie got clothes, games, fingernail polish, books, music gift cards, hair accessories, stuffed animals, and Barbie dolls, clothes, and accessories. She opened the big gift from John and Sherlock and gasped. “Oh Papa, Uncle Sherlock! It’s too much. You didn’t have to get me this!”

She rushed over to John and hugged him. “Do you like it?” he asked. 

“I love it! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!”

“You’re welcome,” John said. The smile faded from his face when she went over and jumped up on Sherlock’s lap. 

“Thank you so much, Uncle Sherlock!!!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. 

“I’m . . . gl . . . glad . . . you . . . l . . . like . . . it.”

“It’s so great.” She hugged him again, and he hugged her back, desperate to hold onto this feeling, not knowing if he’d ever be able to hug her again. 

She got down, and Sherlock could not keep the look of pain from his face. He looked over at Mycroft, who was looking at him sympathetically.

“I believe there’s one more present,” Mycroft said. He pushed back a curtain, revealing a huge box. 

As she got the box open, she stopped, her eyes sparkling. Inside was a full-sized juke box like Mycroft’s. 

“Oh, Uncle Mycroft!! Thank you so much,” she said as she rushed over to him and threw herself in his arms. 

Mycroft turned a bit red and was more than a bit flustered. “Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most up-to-date juke box they had. It plays MP3 and radio and records and CDs. It lights up and everything. I do hope you enjoy it.” 

“I will. I know I will. Thank you!” she said as she kissed his cheek. 

Rosie stood up and thanked everyone for their great presents and for coming to her party. 

Anthea entered the room along with a couple of Mycroft’s men, all carrying rather large gift bags. 

Mycroft stood up. “Young ladies, I want to make sure that each of you gets your correct bag. Inside are a number of things: your custom-made riding clothes, some makeup and hair supplies from the spa, your pictures with Ms. Grande and from the party, gift cards from quite a few businesses in London, and some rather delicious treats from the caterer. I hope you enjoy them.”

The girls excitedly opened their packages and were very excited. After they talked and played with some of Rosie’s toys, Mycroft announced that it was 9 p.m. and he had promised that he’d get the girls home. They all moaned in disappointment. But as they got on their jackets, Mycroft opened the door and outside was a huge limousine. 

“I thought you might all wish to go home in style.” The girls were clapping and thanking Mycroft. 

Rosie asked if she could go with them. John said that she could, and she got ready and ran out to the car with the rest of the girls. Anthea followed them and got in the front seat to guide the driver. 

The adults went to the door and waved as the car pulled away. 

“That was such a good party,” Molly said. “She’ll never forget it. Congratulations, Mycroft.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head slightly and smiling. 

“It was a wonderful party,” John said, his voice slurring. “I can’t thank you enough for it. You’ve made Rosie’s year.”

“You’re most welcome, John,” Mycroft said. No one but Sherlock seemed to notice the coldness behind the words. He knew that Mycroft wasn’t upset with Rosie. Far from it, Mycroft seemed to sincerely care about the little girl. But Sherlock knew his brother was very angry with John for what he had done, for what he had said. Sherlock had to admit, though, that Mycroft was doing a great job of covering it.

Mummy kissed Mycroft, Sherlock, and John on the cheek. Daddy shook their hands as he said he had to get Mummy home. 

Greg and Molly also got ready to leave, offering to drive Mrs. Hudson home. 

After everyone left, an uncomfortable quiet gathered over the room. 

“As soon as Rosie gets back, we’ll get out of your hair, Mycroft,” John said.

“I should say not. You’re too drunk to drive. I won’t let you go anywhere with that little girl in the van. I had one of my men retrieve some nightclothes and toiletries for all three of you. There are several bedrooms upstairs.”

John opened his mouth to argue, but saw the look on Mycroft’s face. Instead he flopped back down on the chair he had been sitting in and petulantly crossed his arms, a frown on his face.

“Let me get you up to bed,” Mycroft said to Sherlock.

John didn’t even look up when they left the room.

Sherlock could feel his self control start to slip.

He had to keep it together. He didn’t want to fall apart in front of Mycroft. When he was in bed, alone. Then he would give in. Mycroft wheeled Sherlock to the back of the house where Sherlock was surprised to see that a lift had been installed.

“Just in case you ever needed to come to stay,” Mycroft said matter of factly.

On the second floor, Mycroft took him to a bedroom at the back of the house. “For your privacy,” Mycroft said. When he opened the door, Sherlock was surprised to see that Brad was there waiting for him. And Gladstone was laying on the floor beside the bed.

“I sent for them and your meds and clothes, etc.”

“You . . . th . . . thought . . . of . . . ev . . . every . . . th . . . thing.”

“I try,” Mycroft said, smiling. “I’ll leave you to get ready for bed.”

“You . . . w . . . won’t . . . l . . . let . . . J . . . John . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . where . . . I . . . am?”

“Of course not.”

“Th . . . thank . . . you . . . M . . . My.” 

Mycroft smiled down at him. “Anything for you, Little Brother.”

After Sherlock was finished getting ready for bed, he asked Brad to close the curtains and turn out the lights. He did and left the room. 

And there, alone except for Gladstone, in the pitch-black room, Sherlock felt like his heart and soul had been ripped out of him, leaving nothing but devastation and ruin in their wake. A low, guttural cry of pain escaped him. It hurt. More than any physical pain had ever hurt him. If he’d been in the warehouse every day for the rest of his life, maybe, just maybe, it would feel like this moment, but only if taken as a whole. 

His whole body shook from emotion. All warmth had left him. Nothing but the icy fingers of dread and the cold caress of loss swept over his skin. It felt like there was nothing — not desert heat or the flames of Hell — that could ever warm him again. 

“JOHN!!” His body screamed, in agony. It was like going through the most painful type of withdrawal he could imagine. No weaning off of cocaine or morphine or any of the other drugs he’d taken had hurt like this. He needed John’s presence, his touch, his smell, his taste, his voice. But it was all gone. Lost to him forever. The only thing in his life that he had ever truly allowed himself to absolutely need was gone. For so long, he’d been closed off, like a derelict house, but John had opened him up to love and to life. Now it was snatched away. 

He wanted to throw things, scream, break windows and furniture, beat his hands on the mantelpiece until they were ruined and bloody. He wanted to jump out of the window to the ground below and run, run so hard and so far that he would simply collapse. He wanted to punish himself for becoming so dependent, so needy, so desperate, so, as John had put it, pathetic. But he couldn’t physically do it. 

“D . . . damn . . . th . . . this . . . u . . . useless . . . b . . . body!” he swore quietly. “I should never have allowed myself to fall in love. It was stupid. John doesn’t want me. He wants the old Sherlock, and that man is long dead. To survive all that I’ve survived and be brought to complete ruin because I dared to love someone. Mycroft was so right. He told me all hearts are broken and that caring isn’t an advantage. I should have listened. John hates me for loving him. He only pretended to care because he felt guilty about what Mary did and he felt sorry for me. Poor crippled, scarred, stupid Sherlock — his body and mind all in ruins. I know, I’ll pretend to love him, give him a boost. Was that what you were thinking, John?” he thought.

And when tsunamis of emotion — of raw agony and heartbreak — swept over him again and again, he was helpless. He couldn’t get enough air. His body was flailing, trying to find purchase on some surface. He was dimly aware that Gladstone had jumped onto the bed and was trying to calm him but it wasn’t working.

He was completely overwhelmed and was starting to panic. He desperately wanted anything, anything to take this awful, horrible pain away. The emptiness was horrible. The best part of him was gone, erased like it never existed. Because it hadn’t. It had all been a lie. A terrible deceit that had rendered him beyond hope of saving. 

He laid there in the dark and the cold for what seemed like days. He had no concept of how much time was passing. He wasn’t making any noise so as not to draw attention to himself. He wouldn’t let John see him like this. He wouldn’t let him see how he had utterly destroyed Sherlock Holmes.

Yet, despite that, despite everything that John had done and said, Sherlock knew in the deepest most hidden part of himself that he still loved John and always would. 

And he hated himself for it. 

“You pathetic, weak, disgusting worm. If he came into this room right now, you’d let him say anything to you, do anything to you just to be near him. You’d let him beat you to death,” he thought, all too painfully aware that it was true. 

Mycroft. He’d have to have Mycroft be the strong one. He’d have to have Mycroft stand between he and John. Keep him away. 

He hated being so weak. The old Sherlock would have been much stronger. He’d lived without John, even though he wanted him. Now that he’d had John as part of his life, he didn’t want to imagine a life without him. 

But he knew how John really felt. If John just felt guilt and pity, that wasn’t love. If John was willing to hit Sherlock, how could that be love? Even if he was drunk. 

The tears he’d cried had left salty tracks down his face and soaked his pillow. His chest was hurting from the force of the hushed sobs. His head was aching. His body was sore. He was shaking from cold. He was beyond miserable, physically. 

All he wanted was John. He wanted him to be laying beside him. He wanted to rest his cheek on John’s bare chest with John’s arms holding him closely. He wanted that heavenly smell in his nose. He wanted to hear John chuckling. He could see it all in his mind, but it all twisted. “Pathetic, scarred, ugly,” John said, over and over as he got out of bed. “Disgusting freak.” He turned his back and started out of the room.

“D . . . don’t . . . g . . . go,” Sherlock whispered. “Pl . . . please . . . J . . . John. D . . . don’t . . . l . . . leave . . . m . . . me. I . . . l . . . love . . . you.”

“What the hell do I care about that?” John said. He turned and stared at Sherlock, his face twisted with hatred. “That’s your problem. Not mine. I’ve put myself through enough trying to make up for what Mary did. Pity only goes so far. I don’t want to put myself through having to touch you. I feel like showering every time you do.” John turned and left. 

Tears came again. Sherlock howled in pain. “D . . . don’t . . . g . . . go!”

A few minutes later, the door opened. Someone came in, laid down beside him, and took him in his arms. He clutched desperately at them. “J . . . John,” he whispered. “J . . . John.” 

But something wasn’t right. The smell was wrong. It didn’t feel like John. The pyjamas were silk. He listened hard and could hear him saying something.

“M . . . My?” Sherlock asked. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock. It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

“H . . . he . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me . . . M . . . My. M . . . maybe . . . h . . . he . . . n . . . never . . . d . . . did. I . . . sh . . . should . . . h . . . have . . . kn . . . known. H . . . how . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . he . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me? I’m . . . n . . . not . . . w . . . worth . . . l . . . loving. H . . . he . . . w . . . was . . . r . . . right. I’m . . . d . . . disgusting . . . and . . . p . . . pathetic. I’m . . . u . . . ugly . . . and . . . st . . . stupid.”

“Sherlock, you’re none of those things. You’re a great man. You’ve done so much to help so many people. You’re so loved by so many people.”

“N . . . not . . . J . . . John. N . . . never . . . J . . . John.”

“You don’t know that. He didn’t say that.” 

“H . . . he . . . h . . . hit . . . m . . . me . . . M . . . My. M . . . my . . . J . . . John . . . h . . . hit . . . m . . . me.”

“He’s done so before. He will never do so again,” Mycroft said darkly.

“B . . . but . . . you’re . . . n . . . not . . . s . . . supposed . . . t . . . to . . . h . . . hit . . . s . . . someone . . . you . . . l . . . love,” Sherlock said in a small, childlike voice.

Mycroft hugged him closer. “Quite right, Little Brother. Quite right.”

“B . . . but . . . I . . . n . . . need . . . h . . . him. H . . . he’s . . . a . . . all . . . I’ve . . . e . . . ever . . . w . . . wanted. Pl . . . please . . . pl . . . please . . . h . . . help . . . m . . . me . . . M . . . My. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . l . . . lost. I’m . . . s . . . so . . . em . . . empty. It . . . h . . . hurts . . . s . . . so . . . m . . . much. It’s . . . l . . . like . . . I’ve . . . b . . . been . . . t . . . torn . . . in . . . t . . . two. I . . . c . . . can’t . . . l . . . live . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . this. N . . . not . . . kn . . . knowing . . . h . . . he . . . d . . . doesn’t . . . l . . . love . . . m . . . me. P . . . put . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . away . . . s . . . somewhere. S . . . somewhere . . . wh . . . where . . . th . . . they’ll . . . dr . . . drug . . . m . . . me . . . a . . . all . . . d . . . day . . . s . . . so . . . I . . . c . . . can’t . . . r . . . rem . . . ember. M . . . make . . . th . . . the . . . p . . . pain . . . g . . . go . . . a . . . away.” Sherlock sobbed into Mycroft’s chest. 

“I can’t do that, Sherlock. I can’t.”

“I . . . h . . . have . . . n . . . nothing . . . t . . . to . . . l . . . live . . . f . . . for . . . n . . . now. I’m . . . n . . . not . . . w . . . worth . . . a . . . all . . . th . . . the . . . tr . . . trouble . . . you’ve . . . g . . . gone . . . th . . . through. Pl . . . please . . . g . . . give . . . m . . . me . . . p . . . peace. I . . . f . . . feel . . . br . . . broken . . . in . . . w . . . ways . . . th . . . that . . . c . . . can . . . n . . . never . . . b . . .be . . . f . . . fixed. H . . . how . . . c . . . could . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me . . . a . . .after . . . wh . . . what . . . th . . . they . . . d . . . did? H . . . he . . . w . . . was . . . ex . . . pecting . . . a . . . cl . . . clean . . . v . . . virgin. Wh . . . why . . . w . . . would . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . want . . . m . . . me . . . n . . .now . . . th . . . that . . . I’m . . . a . . . d . . . dirty . . . d . . . disgusting . . . u . . . used . . . p . . . piece . . . of . . . g . . . garbage . . . wh . . . who . . . c . . . can’t . . . d . . . do . . . th . . . the . . . th . . . things . . . h . . . he . . . w . . . wants?”

“Don’t say such things, Sherlock. You’re not dirty or disgusting. You had no control over what they did to you. And you have a lot to live for. You have family and friends who love you, who need you in their lives. We want you to be with us.” 

“B . . . but . . . wh . . . what . . . g . . . good . . . is . . . l . . . life . . . w . . . without . . . l . . . love?” Sherlock asked. “It . . . t . . . took . . . a . . . all . . . of . . . m . . . my . . . l . . . life . . . t . . . to . . . f . . . find . . . s . . . someone . . . th . . . that . . . I . . . c . . . could . . . l . . . love. I . . . w . . . was . . . n . . . never . . . in . . . terested . . . in . . . a . . . anyone . . . else. And . . . n . . . now . . . h . . . he’s . . . g . . . gone. I . . .w . . . won’t . . . e . . . ever . . . f . . . find . . . a . . . anyone . . . e . . . else.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You . . . d . . . didn’t.” 

“That was different. I haven’t because I’d found the perfect person. I’ll never love anyone else.”

“N . . . neither . . . w . . . will . . . I,” Sherlock said as he burrowed his face into Mycroft’s chest. “H . . . he’s . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . only . . . p . . . person . . . I’ll . . . e . . . ever . . . l . . . love. Th . . . the . . . o . . . only . . . p . . . person . . . I’ll . . . e . . . ever . . . w . . . want. You . . . d . . . don’t . . . un . . . derstand . . . M . . . My. You . . . h . . . have . . . a . . . n . . . normal . . . h . . . hetero . . . s . . . sexual . . . dr . . . drive. I . . . th . . . thought . . . I . . . w . . . was . . . c . . . completely . . . a . . . asexual. U . . . until . . . I . . . m . . . met . . . J . . . John. It’s . . . o . . . only . . . h . . . him. C . . . can . . . o . . . only . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . him. W . . . will . . . o . . . only . . . b . . . be . . . h . . . him. I . . . l . . . lived . . . w . . . without . . . l . . . love . . . b . . . before. D . . . didn’t . . . th . . . think . . . I . . . n . . . needed . . . it. Th . . . thought . . . it . . . a . . . w . . . weakness . . . and . . . un . . . unnecessary. C . . . can’t . . . m . . . miss . . . wh . . . what . . . you . . . n . . . never . . . h . . . had.

“B . . . but . . . I . . . kn . . . know . . . wh . . . what . . . it . . . f . . . feels . . . l . . . like . . . n . . . now. I . . . y . . . yearn . . . f . . . for . . . it. It’s . . . l . . . like . . . th . . . those . . . dr . . . dreadful . . . ro . . . mance . . . n . . . novels. J . . . John . . . is . . . th . . . the . . . o . . . only . . . one . . . f . . . for . . . m . . . me . . . in . . . th . . . the . . . wh . . . whole . . . w . . . world. It . . . f . . . felt . . . l . . . like . . . w . . . we’ve . . . al . . . always . . . b . . . been . . . t . . . together . . . all . . . th . . . through . . . t . . . time. Th . . . that . . . w . . . were . . . m . . . meant . . . t . . . to . . . b . . . be . . . t . . . together. L . . . like . . . w . . . were . . . one . . . s . . . soul . . . one . . . h . . . heart . . . in . . . t . . . two . . . b . . . bodies. H . . . he . . . g . . . gave . . . m . . . me . . . h . . . hope . . . wh . . . when . . . I . . . h . . . had . . . n . . . none. H . . . he . . . g . . . gave . . . m . . . me . . . p . . . peace . . . wh . . . when . . . all . . . w . . . was . . . ch . . . chaos. H . . . he . . . g . . . gave . . . m . . . me . . . f . . . faith . . . wh . . . when . . . all . . . w . . . was . . . d . . . doubt. H . . . how . . . d . . . do . . . I . . . l . . . live . . . n . . . now . . . th . . . that . . . h . . . half . . . of . . . ev . . . everything . . . I . . . am . . . h . . . has . . . b . . . been . . . r . . . ripped . . . a . . . away. All . . . th . . . that’s . . . l . . . left . . . is . . . a . . . h . . . hollow . . . em . . . empty . . . sh . . . shell. I . . . f . . . feel . . . d . . . dead . . . in . . . inside. Th . . . there’s . . . n . . . nothing . . . l . . . left. 

“Oh . . . G . . . God . . . M . . . My. Pl . . . please . . . m . . . make . . . it . . . g . . . go . . . a . . . away.”

“I wish I could. I wish I could. I don’t know what to say or do. I know it hurts. Really hurts. I never saw you bond with anyone the way you did with him. I was glad that you got a chance to experience love. But I never wanted this for you.”

Sherlock felt like the world had collapsed on him. He didn’t want platitudes. He didn’t want sympathy. He only wanted the pain to stop. He laid there, quiet. Every part of him hurt. And he found that he was suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes needing to rest, but deathly afraid of what his dreams would bring. As the darkness took him, he welcomed the oblivion, hoping it would last forever.

As Mycroft listened to Sherlock softly breathing and occasionally moaning, he considered what he might do. He’d never wished anything but the best for his brother, wanting him to be happy and healthy. He had failed him. Again and again. 

He’d misjudged Moriarty’s obsession with Sherlock. He’d failed to keep track of Sherlock on his two-year hiatus, and it took weeks before he’d found him in Serbia and pulled him out. And Sherlock had ended up getting hurt. 

He’d failed to find him when he was kidnapped. And Sherlock had lost a good portion of himself. His body, his mind, his soul. 

And now he’d failed him again. He should never have allowed John to become such an important part of his life. He’d thought that John would be a steadying influence on his brother. But he hadn’t anticipated that the two would fall in love. He truly hadn’t thought his brother was capable of feeling love. He should have stepped in at some point. It would have been worth Sherlock hating him forever if he could have kept this pain away from him. 

He always had the best of intentions. But the saying was correct. The road to hell was paved with good intentions. 

He had no idea how he could fix this. His brother was already sinking back into the depths of depression. He’d have to contact Dr. Cooper in the morning. 

Another problem was getting John out of the house without talking to Sherlock at all. Whether John remembered what he’d said and done or not, he was not going to see Sherlock. When he’d sent his men to pick up Brad and Gladstone, he’d had them bring all of Sherlock’s clothes and all of his possessions. 

He was torn on what to do. To be truthful, he wanted more than anything to have John locked up in a cell beside his bitch of a wife. But he knew Sherlock wouldn’t want that. And it wouldn’t be fair to Rosie. That little girl was completely innocent and didn’t deserve for her world to be turned upside down a second time. 

No. The thing to do was to get them out of the house in the morning and then make sure that John never saw Sherlock again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter.


End file.
